


As Heavy As A History Book Can Be

by bearfeathers



Series: gotta fix the shit vaughn broke like goddamn [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-01-05 21:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 83,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: Did you see the light in my heart?Did you see the sweat on my brow?Did you see the fear in my heart?Did you see me bleeding out?





	1. you may shed a tear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/gifts).



> A series of fics which will span pre-TSS to post-TGC. Primarily Merlahad and Percilot centered within a verse which Lywinis and I have lovingly and painstakingly crafted (and continue to craft lol). This fic is a partner-fic to ["Photographs and Memories"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12165312) by Lywinis as well as a sort-of continuation of ["Home Is Wherever I'm With You"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3830767). With the release of The Golden Circle, we've had to tweak our verse to accommodate it (DAMN YOU, VAUGHN). Our previous collections are now considered finished but will be heavily referenced here. I'll do my best to link to a chapter from the previous collections if they're referenced here, but I'd definitely recommend reading those first!
> 
> As another note, occasionally I will have a prompt fill here which is NOT part of our verse. These will be marked with a (*) in the chapter title to signify this.
> 
> And lastly... I take prompts! Feel free to wander over to my Tumblr (bearfethers.tumblr.com) and leave one in my inbox if you'd like! ʕ✪㉨✪ʔ

Eggsy closes the laptop case, gently sliding it across the counter between him and Harry. With the adrenaline of the fight and the satisfaction of knowing they'd once again saved the world rapidly wearing off, he began to feel the weight of recent events crashing down on him.

 

Tilde's safe. Thank god, thank god she's safe. Safe and alive. He knows he has explaining to do, he knows he'd hurt her... but at least now he would have the opportunity to actually say those things.

 

They'd lost so many people. He'd gotten Harry back and you'd have to pry the man out of his cold, dead hands to get him away, but the exchange rate had been... too much. Roxy's gone. His best mate. The person he trusted most. And he'd never get to tell her how much she really meant to him. A paltry "ur da best" text was the last thing he'd said to her and then she was gone. Not even a chance to say goodbye. Not even a chance to take her place. They'd been through so much together, he'd never thought she could just be _gone_ like this. He always thought he'd be the one to go first. In a lot of ways, he thinks he should have been. She deserved better. Roxy deserved so much better than to just be blinked out of existence like a candle being extinguished.

 

Percy's gone. True, he and Percival weren't exactly at "best mates" status but he'd come to respect the older Knight immensely in the time they knew each other. He'd been one of the few who remained loyal to Kingsman in the Valentine fiasco. Martin was quiet and stoic but his fierce protectiveness of Roxy came through loud and clear every time. Eggsy supposes it's a small mercy that Martin didn't have time to realize he'd now lost two Lancelots; one of them twice at that. Eggsy feels like he hardly even got to know James. The time between his surprise reveal in Valentine's cells to now feels miniscule. Far too short for a man they'd thought to be dead a mere year ago. It feels like some cruel irony that he'd narrowly escaped death then only to have it visited upon him again so soon.

 

Merlin.

 

Eggsy feels his stomach turn at the mere thought of the man. Merlin invokes a complicated string of emotions inside him that he doesn't feel ready to deal with at the moment. His relationship with Merlin wasn't the same as the one he had with Harry, but it was just as strong. It was simply in a different way. He was firm, but fair, never cutting Eggsy any slack for his less than noble heritage but never holding it against him either (perhaps because Merlin himself came from a similar background). He was kind. Surprisingly gentle. Gut-wrenchingly sincere in ways you'd never expect him to be. He'd been a large part of the reason that Eggsy had been able to go on with Kingsman without Harry.

 

But now...

 

"Harry," he says, his voice sounding too loud in the empty space. "We should go look... I mean, we should see if there's anything... I just... He deserves a proper burial."

 

He doesn't have to clarify who he's talking about. He can tell Harry knows. Harry's eye falls shut, his hands clenching into fists where they rest on top of his thighs. For a moment, Eggsy thinks the older man might be sick.

 

"He does. But I... I can't. I can't look," Harry says. "I'm afraid of what we'll find. I don't want that to be the last I see of him."

 

"Harry we can't just... _leave_ him there," Eggsy blurts.

 

"I just can't believe he's gone. And he never tried to tell me. Not once," Harry says, continuing as though he hasn't heard Eggsy at all. "I suppose he thought he was protecting me. But good god, how could I have forgotten? How is it I remembered so many other things and not this?"

 

"Harry," Eggsy says slowly. "What the hell are you on about?"

 

"Merlin. _My_ Merlin," Harry says, staring blankly ahead of him. "I didn't remember until he sang and then it all just... You see, he _knows_ how much I hate those bloody John Denver albums of his. Sometimes I think he played them for the simple fact that he knew I hated them. _But how could I not remember_?"

 

Eggsy feels that same nausea roll over him as it had earlier. Harry hasn't explicitly said anything, but Eggsy knows exactly what it is he's saying. Harry and Merlin had been a couple. They'd been _in love_. He's suddenly reviewing every one of their interactions he can remember through a different lens, wondering how it could have ever escaped his notice. It was so _obvious_. Knowing that Merlin's final interaction with Harry had not been with the man he loved and who loved him in return, but a man who thought of him as nothing more than a colleague... It makes his head light and his eyes sting.

 

"It's fine, Harry," Eggsy says woodenly, reaching out to his mentor and resting a hand on his arm. "You don't have to. I'll sort it."

 

"No. No, I can't ask you to do that," Harry says, sobering somewhat. "We'll go together. I just need a moment."

 

"Sure. Yeah. Whatever you need," Eggsy agrees quietly.

 

He settles back quietly into his own seat, leaving Harry to his thoughts. But with the return of the silence comes his own thoughts creeping back. They may have saved the world, but it was far from a happy ending. Swallowing thickly, he pushes back the sting of encroaching tears and forces himself to stay in control.

 

_"Once that is done, then - and only then - you may shed a tear in private."_

 

Merlin's words echo in his head. Had he cried, Eggsy wonders, when Harry had died? He must have. It's impossible to think that he hadn't. But he'd never breathed a word of it to Eggsy. Not one word. If anything, he'd been the one comforting Eggsy over Harry's death instead. But why? Why keep all of that to himself? 

 

Those words. He'd stood by them, even to his last, telling Eggsy and Harry to get on with their mission. He'd hushed Eggsy before he could get a word in, firmly reminding him that he had a job to do and that it was no time for tears. He'd been so calm when Eggsy had felt anything but. He'd seemed so at peace with his choice that Eggsy can hardly stand it. He'd guided Eggsy along as he had many times before, as calmly as ever, for the last time. If only he hadn't stepped on that mine, Eggsy thinks, Merlin wouldn't have had to make that choice. If he hadn't given Harry and Merlin that ultimatum of coming or not, Merlin would have been with Ginger in the control room, safe with all his monitors and computers and staying the voice in their ears. If only Merlin would have just let him accept the consequences of his own mistake. But no, of course Merlin would never do that. 

 

Eggsy realizes with a start that he doesn't even know Merlin's true name. All these things Eggsy knows about him and his real name isn't among them. He doesn't think he'd ever asked.

 

Just like that, whatever control he'd maintained quickly evaporates. He doesn't mean to cry, not here and now. But the first sob slips out and he's gone. It's not in private and he can't say the job is truly done just yet, but he couldn't stop himself now if he tried.

 

Elbows propped on the table and shoulders hunched, Eggsy feels everything he'd kept bottled up since this had all begun come tumbling out of his grasp. It's the worst possible time, but he'd held on long enough, hadn't he? How did they do it? How did they manage to keep themselves in check through it all? How could he be expected to just keep his chin up with the people he loves dying around him?

 

"Eggsy."

 

He can't bring himself to look up at the sound of Harry's voice. Shame wells up inside him and only serves to draw more tears from his tired eyes. He needs to stop. Here he is blubbering away next to Harry as though he's the only one who's lost something. Fuck's sake, he should be the one comforting Harry! But try as he might, he just can't seem to turn it off. The hurt is too raw, too great, to ask him to remember his training now.

 

_"Eggsy."_

 

The second time, Harry's voice is wrecked and heavy with emotion. His hand rests on Eggsy's back for a brief moment before he's hauling the younger man in, herding him close enough so that he can cage him in a crushing embrace. Eggsy leans into it, arms wrapped every bit as tightly around Harry. He doesn't sob as Eggsy does, but his hitching breaths and shaking limbs betray his tears all the same.

 

It's just the two of them now. Of all of them, it's come down to just him and Harry. Harry, who had just found and lost Merlin in an instant. It feels like an eternity before either of them speak, but when Eggsy breaks the silence, it's with bitter, hurt words.

 

"Why didn't he _tell me_? Why didn't either of you tell me?" Eggsy demands, speaking into Harry's shoulder.

 

"We couldn't. It wasn't allowed in Kingsman and we just... We'd kept it secret for so long," Harry says heavily. "He wouldn't have wanted you to worry over him."

 

"What's the use in keeping all of it to himself?" Eggsy growls, pushing off Harry and scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "He had to watch you die and he never said anything. And now you..."

 

Eggsy gestures vaguely, helplessly towards the jungle from which they'd come.

 

"It should have been me on that fucking mine," Eggsy says, slamming a fist down onto the counter and taking some satisfaction in the pain that comes with it.

 

" _Enough_ ," Harry barks.

 

"No, not _enough_ ," Eggsy grates back hoarsely. "Why the fuck would either of you keep that from me? That had to have been eating him up all that time and he never said a _fucking_ word to me!"

 

"Because he cared for you, Eggsy," Harry tells him.

 

"Caring for people means letting them care for you, too! Or did he not trust me enough for that!?"

 

" _Eggsy, enough_ ," Harry says, raising his voice. He stares the younger man down, as though daring him to speak. Eggsy can't tell if he feels too angry or too numb, but he falls silent all the same. "Merlin... He was never very good when it came to being on the receiving end of caring. But please understand that if he kept anything from you, it wasn't because he didn't trust you or didn't value that you cared for him. He just... He just..."

 

Harry holds his hands up as though he might find the words in them. Coming up empty, he sighs, shoulders dropping as his hands fall back to his sides. He huffs a laugh, but the sound holds little humor.

 

"He hates making people worry. Hated," Harry says, pain flickering across his features as he's forced to correct himself. "Eggsy, don't for one moment feel as though what happened was your fault. Merlin made his choice. Don't do him the disservice of taking that away from him by thinking you were responsible for his death. He chose you and I over himself because that's simply what Merlin does. That's what Merlin has always done as long as I've known him and I've known him a very long time. I can't force you to abandon any guilt you feel. All I can ask is for you to consider seeing this not as a guilty burden but as what it was intended to be: an act of love."

 

Eggsy stares sullenly at the floor, sniffling quietly. He's no longer sobbing, but the tears continue to trickle down his cheeks all the same. Like a little boy. A child. He feels like a leaky faucet and wishes someone could just turn him off already.

 

"I didn't even know his name," Eggsy says morosely. "I never even asked."

 

"Callum," Harry supplies. "It was Callum Craig."

 

He tries to put the name to the face. It just won't seem to stick. Even now, he still just can't help but think of him as Merlin.

 

"I know," Harry says as though reading his mind. Eggsy hears the fondness in his voice. "He always preferred 'Merlin.'"

 

The conversation leaves Eggsy feeling hollowed out, as though someone had cut him open and scooped out everything inside him. Harry had asked him not to feel guilty, but how could he possibly do that? How can he not feel guilty that Merlin's dead? How can he not feel guilty that Merlin comforted him over Harry when it should have been the reverse?

 

"He should've let me help," Eggsy says quietly.

 

"He should've," Harry agrees. "I truly wish he had. But I can't say I'm surprised that he didn't, however much I may disagree with his choice."

 

"Then promise me you'll let me help you now," Eggsy says, finally looking up at him. "Don't do what he did."

 

Harry offers him a brief, pained smile and a quick nod before gazing out the window and falling silent. He's in shock, Eggsy knows. Harry knows it, too, he's sure. Once they're home and can start fully processing everything that's happened, the full weight of it will hit him. He feels grief now, certainly, but in order to keep functioning there's a limit to how much of it he can hold at once.

 

"If you ever need to talk about him, I'll be around to listen," Eggsy tells him. "Whenever you feel like it."

 

"Of course. In fact, I'd like to tell you more about him. About us," Harry says quietly. "Perhaps once I've had time to... process recent events."

 

Even now Harry makes it all sound so neat and tidy. Maybe Eggsy was right and the others just have something he doesn't. Something which gives them this strange power to control their emotions in situations where Eggsy feels anything but in control.

 

"We should go," Harry says, straightening his tie and dusting himself off. "I think it's best we do this now before I lose my nerve."

 

Eggsy nods, his mouth dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Even the mere idea of - and he has to just come out with it - looking around for what's left of someone he cares about is enough to make him want to throw up his hands and be done with it. But as he'd already said, Merlin deserves better. So as difficult as he knows this will be, he'll do it. He reaches out, grabbing Harry by the arm and offering a comforting squeeze. Now isn't the time for him to waver. Harry needs him.

 

They're just about to leave when a sudden transmission from Ginger floating through their comm lines stops them in their tracks. She sounds calm, but her voice is laced with an undercurrent of urgency.

 

"Harry and I are here, Ginger," Eggsy declares, fingers pressed lightly to the frame of his glasses.

 

_"Are you with Merlin?"_

 

Eggsy inhales deeply. "No. We're not. Merlin was... killed in the line of duty."

 

_"Oh, no, no, no. Then you have to get to wherever he is right now."_

 

Harry frowns, a look of confusion forming on his face. "Ginger -- "

 

_"I've got readings on all of you in front of me right now. Merlin is **not** dead. But if we're not expedient about this -- "_

 

It's likely that what she says next is something important, but it falls on deaf ears as the two men run hell for leather out the diner's doors. They'd heard the only words they needed to hear:

 

Merlin is not dead.


	2. give up the ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come close to see me friend  
> My spirit's broken, bent  
> Come closer help me to
> 
> Give up the ghost  
> Don't talk about it  
> So I'm not hanging in the moment of surrender  
> So I'm not hanging in this moment for forever  
> Until I leave it too late

Roxy rolls off the bed with a gasp, startling her poodle, forgetting for a moment where she is. Safe. Safe in her uncle's home. She and Martin had opted to spend the evening with James, so she'd set up a feed at her own home to monitor the property. When she'd seen the missile coming towards her, it hadn't actually been coming towards her - it had been her house. Her connection with Eggsy had been lost in that same moment and a chill wave of dread washes over her as she wonders if the reason for that is... No, she doesn't want to think it. She stands in the middle of the room that had been set aside as hers since she was a little girl, her laptop held in her hands as her shock is quickly overcome by her instinct to take action.

 

"Roxanne!"

 

She hears James's frantic call for her, accompanied by two sets of hurried footsteps. Exiting the room swiftly with Perdita trotting at her side, she turns just in time to catch Percival and the former Lancelot on the staircase, dogs at their heels. Relief spreads through her at the mere sight of them, though by the expressions on their faces, the bad is about to get worse. 

 

"I just saw - "

 

"We know; we just saw the same thing happen at Martin's," James explains quickly.

 

"We're going. Now," Martin says decisively. "I'll bring the car around. Roxy, start trying to get in contact with any of the others. Begin with Merlin and work your way through the list. James, the - "

 

"Emergency bags. Yes, yes, I know," James says, hurriedly shooing his partner down the stairs. "We want to be quick about this. For all we know the very same could happen here."

 

Martin is gone in a flash. Though he'd seemed as unruffled as ever, Roxy has known him long enough to detect that sliver of anxiety. That's enough to worry her. James leads her down the stairs, a hand on her shoulder all the while as though he suddenly doesn't trust even the confines of his own home. He leaves her in the kitchen as she brings up her phone, dialing Merlin and biting on her lip when she receives the high pitched beeps and ensuing message that alerts her the number is not in service or disconnected. She goes through number after number, watching all the while as James hands duffel bags to Martin through the front door. Each and every number gives her the same result and by the time the three of them have loaded the bags and the dogs and gotten in the car, she's exhausted her list.

 

"Anything?" James asks, turning to face her in the back seat.

 

"Nothing," Roxy says. "Every number was disconnected. The comms are dead and I can't seem to access our network from my laptop either."

 

"Damn!" Martin hisses, striking the steering wheel with an open palm.

 

"What do you think all of this is?" Roxy asks, not entirely expecting an answer.

 

"I haven't the faintest," James answers, looking thoroughly put out by that implication. "Clearly we've been compromised in some way. And it's by someone with the talent and resources to gain access to our home addresses. Unfortunately, without knowing who's left, we can't begin to..."

 

She frowns as James's sentence tapers off into silence and a frown begins to form on his face.

 

"Martin? We have a tail."

 

From the driver's seat, Martin clicks his tongue unhappily. "I thought as much. Alright, time to lose them then. Roxanne, James, seatbelts, please."

 

Roxy glances over her shoulder out the back window. A small fleet of motorcycles is bearing down on them; it's too dark to properly make out the colors on most, but she can see the rider in the front is clad in crimson riding leathers when the headlight of a passing car provides some brief illumination. Before she can get a better look, she feels the car kick forward. Even as they begin tearing through the streets, she finds her mind straying towards Eggsy, wondering if he's alright or if he'd gotten caught up in... whatever this is. Then there's Merlin who always, always answers one way or another when any of them call. Except for tonight, it would seem. Being cut off from everyone, having their network taken out, it's left her feeling stripped bare in a way she would be hesitant to admit.

 

The car jerks to the right as Martin shifts it into a turn that would be impossible in an ordinary car. Thankfully, the vehicles supplied by Kingsman aren't ordinary cars. Every Kingsman agent is trained to be precise, but for their Percival, precision is an art. If it were anyone else in control of the car, Roxy might have doubts, but with Martin at the wheel, sliding between cars with a sliver of space to spare, hairpin turns through oncoming traffic, she felt as safe as if they were all out for a Sunday drive. 

 

Meanwhile, Roxy and James have hardly been idle. James has fished the Remington CSR from the glove box and is swiftly assembling it in the front seat. Roxy punches a code into the console in front of her and the middle seat slides forward, revealing a well-stocked arsenal for her to peruse. Something with some pop to it, she thinks. The sound of the passenger side window rolling down tells her that her uncle has finished his assembly.

 

"Back in a tick, darling," James says brightly, unfastening his belt.

 

"Be careful, James."

 

The whisper of concern in Martin's reply is not lost on her. Not so very long ago, you wouldn't have been able to pick it out. That had all changed after the chalet. When James's vital readouts had flatlined they knew he was gone. When they eventually made their way up to the snowy hideout, they found only bloodstains left behind. The large stain by the door had come from James. Although no body had been left behind (that would have been foolish on their enemy's part) enough blood had been spilled to conclude that the readings had been accurate and James had not survived.

 

This is what they'd thought for the better part of a year until V-Day had been averted and the day saved. While Eggsy was... otherwise occupied, Merlin had gone about the task of remotely opening the prisoner cells and checking the status of the people within. Martin and Roxy had rounded up what remained of their roster and arrived to assist. What they hadn't expected to find, in a small cell tucked away from the rest down a long corridor, was a very much alive James Spencer. He'd narrowly avoided being cut in half at the chalet, as he later explained, instead having been sliced open neatly from navel to sternum in his effort to dodge Gazelle's strike. He'd been sure he was going to die right then and there - and apparently had, if only briefly - but he awoke sometime later, stitched and stapled with Richmond Valentine hovering over him.

 

Information. That's what it came down to. When he refused to talk willingly, that cell had become his new home. However, the man that emerged was a far cry from the one that had gone in. Months of torture at Gazelle's hands had left him tired and broken, a shadow of the vibrant spirit they knew him as. The past year had been a painstaking practice in recovery for James and even now he hasn't returned to Kingsman in any official capacity. Martin has never been the most demonstrative of individuals, but after getting James back, that wasn't so much a rule of thumb anymore. Before, Martin wouldn't have thought to warn James to be careful; it was a foregone conclusion that he would be. Second chances sometimes make you see things in a different light.

 

"Always," James answers, winking at his partner.

 

Roxy makes her selection, but given that it's better implemented away from civilians, she holds it for the time being and waits to see how James fares. The former Lancelot leans out the window, wind whipping through his hair as he sits on the car door and raises the sniper rifle. He stares through the sight, carefully lining up his shot; they want to lose their pursuers, but not at the price of injuring any civilians in the process. 

 

When James does take his shot, he hits dead on his mark. Only... nothing happens. James lifts his head, his frown making an encore appearance as he tries to determine what had gone wrong. He ducks his head again, firing off several more shots before he gives up and slips back inside the car.

 

"Well, I see we're not the only ones investing in the latest in bulletproof clothing," James harrumphs.

 

"Considering the damage they've done already, I can't say I'm surprised," Roxy says. She leans forward in her seat, putting herself between Martin and James. "Uncle Martin, could you take the next left? I'd like to use the MDGs."

 

"Left it is," Martin answers smartly.

 

MDGs - or magnetic disk grenades - are one of Roxy's favorite gadgets to work with. When used carefully and by someone who knows what they're doing, they can be an invaluable tool. Coming in the form of metallic disks, the MDGs are fired from the front or rear of the vehicle. They attach themselves to the first metal object they come into contact with and detonate as soon as that contact is established.

 

Which is why it's important they get themselves away from traffic in order for her to use them. They duck down the narrow side street, their pursuers following after them. All save one. Roxy frowns, double checking to be sure.

 

"The leader is gone," she tells her uncles. "The red rider."

 

"It's possible they were called away to deal with another one of us," Martin says.

 

"I hope it was Bors," James adds. "The wanker."

 

"James, your bias is showing."

 

"Oh come off it, I know you wish it was him too. I seem to remember you climbing into that boxing ring right along -- "

 

"In any case," Martin interrupts smoothly, "let's not allow ourselves to get complacent. We should assume they're still in the area."

 

Roxy looks at the display before her, the display from the rear mounted camera before her. She types a series of commands, priming the launcher and preparing to deploy the grenades. With a flick of her finger, she sends the first flying, watching it skip on the surface of the pavement like a stone across a pond. Most people would be surprised to find the controls for this particular weapon aren't all that different from many of the mobile games available on their phones. This, in part, is why she enjoys using the MDGs -- it's fun and she's damn good at it.

 

The first explosion lights up the narrow alley road and brings a smile of satisfaction to her face. She waits for the remaining motorcycles to pass their fallen comrade before sending off the next with a flick of her finger. Most made the mistake of trying to send multiple MDGs out at once. However, unless you're doing so to ensure hitting a slippery single target, you're bound to do little more than waste ammunition. The grenades had a habit of attracting to one another when there were multiples in play or otherwise winding up stuck to a single target. This is a game of patience and accuracy, which happen to be two of her strongest skill sets. 

 

As she takes out one after another, she hears James's pleased laugh drifting back from the passenger's seat.

 

"Well done, Lancelot," he praises her. "You cleared them out right quick."

 

As she disengages the launching mechanism and settles back into her seat, she catches a glimpse of Martin in the rearview mirror. He hadn't vocalized his approval as James had, but the small, pleased smile she sees him wearing is taken in equal measure. They say opposites attract and that is no more apparent than it is with the two men in the front seat. 

 

James Spencer had always been an odd bird and the uncontested black sheep of the family. He was loud and outspoken in ways that Spencer men were simply not raised to be. Perhaps even worse was that he never made his romantic leanings much of a secret. Of course, he practiced discretion, but he was never one to hide something just because others didn't care for it. His attitude was light and carefree, always managing to find some bit of good humor in any given situation. In most cases, he was an open book (even sometimes when others wished he would keep that book closed).

 

Conversely, Martin was sealed as tightly as an oyster. As such, Roxy knew only what he chose to share - which was precious little - or what James felt would be alright to include her in. What she did know was that Martin had not had a happy childhood and that his choice to join Kingsman had resulted in being disowned by his parents. He was quiet and serious, rarely prone to more than the smallest of smiles. But not cold or unfeeling, though she'd heard the descriptors used on him on more than one occasion.

 

What Roxy knew best was that both her uncles loved her in equal measure - even if it happened to be in different ways.

 

"I think it should be safe to proceed to our destination, but let's keep our eyes open," Martin advises, taking them through a series of turns before directing them back towards the main road.

 

"I know the Kingsman have a number of these emergency caches," Roxy says, recalling her lessons, "but when was the last time anyone actually checked them?"

 

"Merlin routinely checks them twice per year," Martin says. "If any of them were compromised, we would know about it."

 

"Still, best to be cautious all the same," James adds. "I wouldn't have thought anyone would know how to find us where we rest our heads at night either."

 

There's a small, displeased hum of agreement from Martin, but he otherwise remains focused on the road before them. Roxy's eyes scan the road in back of them, looking to catch a glimpse of the vanished red rider. It could very well be they'd left in pursuit of another target, but Roxy doesn't feel comfortable assuming anything right now. 

 

Thankfully, as they arrive at their destination and exit the car, there has been no sign of anyone pursuing them. Promising the dogs they'll return shortly, they merge into the pedestrian traffic. The Tower Bridge stands before them, tall and imposing, as they make their way to the ticket booth within a throng of chattering tourists. Though not obvious in the way they do so, she can see both her uncles scanning the area around them with a hyper-vigilance like hunting dogs and as they make their way up and to the walkway, they're careful to keep her wedged between them.

 

For obvious reasons, they can't access the hidden panel until the crowd clears out. Unfortunately, that means waiting until closing time. Martin rarely looks at home in a crowd but even less so at present and Roxy knows it's going to be up to her to rescue her uncles from... well, for lack of a better term, from themselves.

 

She hurries to catch up to them, inserting herself between them and wrapping her arms around one of theirs. She raises her phone up between the three of them, poised to take a picture.

 

"Say 'cheese!'" Roxy instructs politely.

 

She presses the shutter button in time to catch James's bewildered expression as well as the blur that is Martin as he had attempted to dodge the photograph. Roxy pouts exaggeratedly.

 

"Uncle, you promised we would take a picture!" she reminds him. "You can't stand out of all of them!"

 

"Well, hang on, I think you've got a bit of his elbow there," James declares brightly, pointing at her screen.

 

Martin huffs looking thoroughly put upon. "You know I don't like photographs, Samantha."

 

"Yes, and I don't like asparagus, but when mother makes it I eat it anyway," James declares. "Come on, darling, don't be such an old fusspot. Indulge your darling niece a little, won't you, David?"

 

Martin shoots his partner a flat, unamused look and for a moment Roxy isn't sure whether it's in character or genuine. Then, with a loud sigh, he concedes defeat.

 

"Alright, alright, you know I can't very well say no to my favorite niece," he admits, edging back into the frame.

 

They continue along the walkway, stopping to take photographs or remark upon the view, every bit the proper tourists. All the while, however, they're each counting the minutes, waiting for what feels like hours. They have no way of knowing if anyone else had survived, but gaining access to the beacons stored inside the cache will put them in a better position than they're in presently. When the last of the sightseers have filtered out and the guard at the exit has begun to check his watch, James makes his move.

 

Roxy catches a snippet of his conversation with the guard, asking for an extra twenty-minutes to propose to his boyfriend. The conversation hasn't escaped Martin's notice either, she sees, as an odd look comes over his face. It's not annoyed like she would usually expect to see with James's shenanigans, but she's struggling to place the particular emotion there. However, she hasn't time to dawdle, as James has won them an uninterrupted twenty minutes upon the bridge. Locating the security cameras, she makes quick work of patching in a looped feed of them walking about the bridge, so as not to arouse suspicion.

 

Her task completed, she makes her way back to her uncles. James is at a crouch just behind Martin, who presses his signet ring to a section of the stone bridge before him. She watches as a square panel depresses and slides away to the left, revealing a hidden space. Laid out on a red velvet cloth bearing the Kingsman insignia are a number of emergency supplies, which they quickly remove and distribute. The most important of these items are the beacons and as Roxy holds on in her hands, she can't help but hope that she'll come to find Eggsy had made it out alive and found his way to another beacon. Finding anyone else alive at this point would be a relief, but there's no one she prays harder for than him. She just isn't quite ready to accept that he's gone. Not Eggsy.

 

"Well, well, well, aren't you three the clever ones?"

 

The voice pulls her from her thoughts and her head jerks to the left to find the source. She sees a woman approaching them from the opposite end of the walkway, clad in red riding leathers with a matching helmet held against her hip. Roxy feels a flicker of anxiety: her red rider. The woman is tall - nearly as tall as James and Martin - with a pale, angular face and short hair so blonde as to nearly be white. Green eyes study them carefully, locked onto them with the same intensity as a cat who's just found three mice. She would be a truly handsome woman were it not for the heavy aura of malice surrounding her, amplified by the sight of a large claymore strapped to her back.

 

"I've been looking everywhere for you," the woman declares.

 

"Well that's funny; we haven't been looking for you at all," James counters.

 

The woman doesn't seem deterred. "Where is Harry Hart?"

 

Roxy feels a shock of grief at the name. She hadn't known Harry as well as her uncles or Eggsy, but the effect his loss had had on them was enough for her to have mourned his absence. This woman, though. How does she know him? Roxy feels a hand on her shoulder and turns her head to find Martin beside her, his gaze boring into their guest with equal intensity. When he moves to stand in front of her, she makes no effort to stop him.

 

"How do you know that name?" Martin asks, his voice low.

 

"How I know it is none of your concern," the woman replies. "Now let's try this again: where is Harry Hart?"

 

Roxy sees James reaching for his sidearm, only for Martin to reach out and stop him. Though his eyes never leave the strange woman, some sort of understanding passes between her uncles, because she watches curiously as James leaves his Tokarev right where it is. She sees Martin step forward again, this time in front of James.

 

"I'm afraid I can't help you," Martin tells her.

 

The woman sighs, shaking her head before she reaches for the claymore strapped to her back. She pulls it out with one hand, brandishing it with the relaxed air of one who's confident in their own skill. Roxy's eyes are drawn to Martin's hand as his grip tightens upon the handle of his cane. Each Kingsman has their own particular specialty and Martin's happens to be with swords. More than once, James as told her that while they were attending university, Martin was a champion fencer as well as an accomplished kendoka  The cane he so often carries with him is only meant to conceal the weapon inside of it, which he draws out now: an imposing cavalry saber.

 

"I have done my utmost to be patient with you, but I am not known to be a patient woman," the red rider declares. She points the tip of her monstrous blade at them. "You will give me Galahad. You will give me Harry Hart or you will die where you stand."

 

There's a pause the length of a heartbeat before Martin turns his head to speak over his shoulder at them. "Lancelot, take your uncle and go to the car. Get the beacons online and start trying to find any other signals. I'll handle this."

 

"Martin - " James begins to protest.

 

"You should know, James," Martin interrupts him, "that I expect a proper proposal later."

 

Roxy understands. It's his own way of assuring them he'll be alright. Still, she sees James hesitating, not wanting to leave Martin alone with this strange woman. Though Roxy hardly wishes to either, she knows it's not a matter they will see him budge on and in any case, they will only be in the way here. She reaches out and grabs James by the crook of his elbow, tugging gently.

 

"Let's go, uncle," Roxy tells him.

 

She sees the conflict written in his expression, but he eventually cedes the point and turns to go with her. They both watch over their shoulders as they walk towards the exit, unwilling to put Martin out of their sight until the last moment possible. Just as they're about to make their exit, they see Martin's free hand tuck behind his back, flashing a code. He holds up one finger, then four, then three before clenching his hand in a closed fist. It was a silly code Roxy had developed with him and James when she was a child. Martin never could easily tell someone he loved them and so, her ten-year-old mind had reasoned he could say it in a code instead to make him more comfortable. Hold up one finger for 'I,' four fingers for 'love,' and three fingers for 'you.' 

 

James squeezes her hand and clears his throat. "Best of luck, Percival. We'll be waiting."

 

With that, Roxy and James exit the walkway, quickly making their way to the staircase and leaving Martin to face the red rider alone.

 

* * *

 

Martin is by no means relaxed, but having James and Roxy heading back to the car and away from this woman does a great deal to relieve some of his stress. The last thing he wants is for one of them to be caught up in this. And he'll be damned if he allows this woman past him.

 

"Percival, then," the woman says, eyes watching him with a predatory gleam.

 

"You have me at a disadvantage," Martin informs her.

 

She smiles at him, something which looks more like a sneer. "You can simply refer to me as War. Though I'm afraid knowing will do you no more good than having a name to curse upon the precipice of death."

 

"Perhaps," Martin says easily. "Shall we?"

 

The transition from easy conversation to movement happens in an instant, like a silent explosion. The two surge towards each other, War throwing her riding helmet as a diversionary tactic, forcing Martin into her oncoming swing. He raises his blade, catching it above his head with the loud sound of metal on metal before they draw apart. Already, Martin knows he's at a severe disadvantage, something he finds particularly unsettling. While he by no means considers himself to be the best in all the world, he knows he is particularly talented in this area and that first contact had told him this will not be a battle easily won - if won at all. The entirety of his right arm had gone numb when their blades connected and something told him she wasn't even using her full strength.

 

"What's the matter? Scared, Little Percival?" she taunts, slowly advancing on him, blade at the ready.

 

Rather than answer verbally, he rushes her, hoping his speed will lend him some leverage when pitted against her grotesque strength. But War is not the sort who has sacrificed speed for power, he finds, as she readily meets him. A volley of swings and thrusts are only just blocked as she forces him backward. War places two hands upon the hilt of her sword, swinging mightily, and it's only thanks to quick reflexes and flexibility that Martin's head remains upon his shoulders. The blade screams along the fiberglass which keeps visitors safely inside the walkway and to his horror, Martin watches as the area is quickly eaten away, as though by acid.

 

When he gets a better look, he can see some sort of liquid dripping from the claymore. Even as War holds it out at her side, he can see the droplets falling to the walkway beneath them, sizzling as it east large, round holes through the material and opens it up to the bridge below. The wind howls through the large holes carved into the sides of the walkway, cutting into him as he studies the monstrous blade. Allowing her to land a hit would be fatal. The bespoke is capable of shielding its wearer from anything from knives to bullets, but this is something else entirely. Even if she were unable to pierce the suit, the blade coupled with her strength would easily break bone. And with that acidic substance it's coated in...

 

"I'll ask you again: Where is Harry Hart?" War demands.

 

"He's not here," Martin replies.

 

"I would say that I don't want to take the answer from you by force," War tells him, lips stretched in a wicked Cheshire Cat grin, "but we'd both know I was lying."

 

Satisfied that he now understands the severity of his situation, War wastes no time in pressing on in her assault. Martin pants for breath, chest heaving and pain shooting up his right arm as he can do little more than block his opponent's attacks.  The near misses become more and more frequent, pitting the walkway with gaping holes all around them. Unless he is quick and very clever, this fight can only end one way. Taking a deep breath, he charges her at a full sprint. Predictably, she thrusts the blade outward towards him, point first. He drops and slides like a baseball player stealing home base, only to push up once he's breached the radius of her swing, bringing his saber up with deadly accuracy. 

 

War shrieks as the blade slices into her face, the tip dragging through her eye and leaving a long, bloody gash in its wake. But before Martin can capitalize on the moment any further, War brings the butt of her sword crashing into his temple. He feels his glasses fly off his face and go skittering somewhere along the walkway. His vision greys as he staggers into the wall to keep himself upright. When it clears, he's assaulted by a pain as though his head had been cracked like an egg. He blinks past double vision and ringing ears, narrowly avoiding being sliced in half as the claymore whistles through the air where he'd just been standing. The wound has only seemed to incite her rage, which in turn only seems to have fueled her strength. The next strike knocks his saber clean from his hands, leaving him defenseless as he ducks and dodges her wild swings.

 

He's forced to stop when he feels the edge of the walkway beneath his feet - one of the many holes she'd carved out there. Martin flails for balance, his hand catching the side of the gap and allowing him to pull himself back upright. But not allowing him enough time to dodge the oncoming point of War's claymore.

 

Martin has been stabbed before. It's a hazard of the job, really. And while never pleasant, any of his previous experiences were nothing compared to the pain of the claymore piercing his shoulder. The blade runs all the way through, pinning him to the stone wall of the bridge and despite his best efforts, he screams in pain. It's like nothing he's ever felt. Already he can feel the blood flowing freely from the wound, his shirt sticking to his skin as it soaks in. He raises his hands, grasping the blade as though to prevent her from driving it any further... only his body suddenly feels slow. Lethargic. Like he's moving through quicksand.

 

"Now, we'll try this one more time. Where is Harry Hart?" War asks, leaning in towards him.

 

There's something dripping from the claymore, but it's different than the substance that burned holes through the walkway. This fluid is milky-white in color and doesn't seem to be burning anything at all. Only... the heaviness in his chest and limbs, the numbness gradually radiating outward... ah. A paralyzing agent. And it's working incredibly fast. He's unprepared when War twists the blade viciously. White hot pain flares up anew and he screams with whatever his struggling lungs can spare.

 

"WHERE. IS. HARRY. HART?"

 

"Harry Hart is _dead,_ " Martin spits. 

 

He pants as spots dot his vision and breathing becomes a notable effort.

 

"Well then you're hardly any good to me, are you?" War says to him, her tone sickly sweet. "But perhaps one of the other two will tell me what I want to know. The girl, I think. Oh, I bet she screams as pretty as you do."

 

The thought of this woman harming Roxy cuts through Martin even deeper than the claymore.

 

"No," he grunts. "I won't let you."

 

His grip tightens on the blade, the edges biting into his hands, but it's nothing compared to the thought of Roxy coming to harm. The thought of failing to protect her. Martin pulls himself forward, the blade sliding deeper within his body as he pushes off the wall, moving towards his adversary. The taste of copper is strong at the back of his mouth, the pain nauseating, but as the paralyzing agent continues to do its work, they begin to grow into things that only exist in his peripheral awareness. Like he's being pulled out of his body.

 

War laughs at his efforts. "Oh, but you are the determined one, aren't you? Struggle all you like. A few more moments and you won't be doing much of anything."

 

Martin ignores her jibes and taunts, focused wholly on accomplishing the task at the forefront of his mind. It seems like hours before he's reached the point he'd aimed for, his hands gripping tight fistfuls of her jacket. Struggling to draw breath, he coughs, feeling something warm dripping from his lips. Blood he realizes dimly.

 

"Well, I must applaud you for your effort. No one's lasted nearly this long," War tells him. "But you must realize now that you can't possibly win."

 

"No..." Martin wheezes. "But I can take you with me."

 

The look of shock on her face is almost satisfying as Marting pushes off with whatever strength he has left, catapulting them both out of the walkway. They fall into the metal struts supporting the walkway and hit with a sickening metallic clang. Martin's body bounces like a rag doll before dropping from the struts and tumbling towards the Thames.

 

_James._

_Roxanne._

 

The names echoing in his head through his fading consciousness bring him some measure of relief; at the very least, they'll be safe.

 

He's out long before his body hits the water.

 

* * *

 

Roxy watches in horror as two bodies tumble from the walkway and plummet into the Thames. Shock leaves her numb as she hears James scream, but as he surges towards the river she remembers how to move and quickly tackles him to the ground. He can't go in there. He's still recovering. If he tries to go after Martin... she'll lose both of them. But James is hysterical, having just watched his partner tumble lifelessly into the river before them. Although she takes no pleasure in the action, she reels back and slaps him hard across the face.

 

"Uncle James! Stop!" Roxy says firmly. "I'll go after him. I'm the stronger swimmer of the two of us and I can handle the current. But I need you to keep watch on the bank. Can you do that?"

 

James's eyes are still wide and round with shock, wet with despair, but he nods his head quickly and she sees enough clarity in them to believe him. Satisfied with that, she clambers up, stripping off her jacket and stepping out of her shoes before wading into the water and striking out. The river is frigid, but she had hardly expected it to be comfortable. She moves as quickly as possible with her confident breaststroke towards where she'd seen them hit the water, but unable to see either one of them now. She tries not to think the worst.

 

_Roxy is all of_ _ten-years-old_ _and dimly aware of the fact that she's being lifted. She slowly blinks herself awake as strong hands lift her from the pillow in front of the fireplace where she'd fallen asleep with the dogs. A yawn escapes her as she's held close to a warm body and carried away and up a long flight of stairs._

 

_**Mr. Martin** , she thinks to herself, smelling his cologne._

 

_She reaches up and wraps her arms around his neck, snuggling further into his hold as he gently rubs her back._

 

_"Martin?" she mumbles._

 

_"Mm?"_

 

_"Will you read me a story?" she asks him._

 

_He chuckles; a soft, barely there noise that makes her smile sleepily into his shoulder._

 

_"I don't believe you'll be able to stay awake for one," Martin tells her._

 

_"I'll stay awake," Roxy tells him. "I promise."_

 

_"Then I suppose one story couldn't hurt," Martin tells her._

 

_Roxy listens to him speak as he carries her, his voice at a low, gentle timbre. She likes Martin. She doesn't understand why her daddy doesn't. (He'd told her she wasn't allowed to call him 'Uncle' Martin.) But her daddy doesn't like Uncle James either, so maybe it's because they're friends. She knows Martin is hard for other grownups to understand; but not for her. You just need to know the right way to listen, that's all. But adults are silly like that sometimes. Before long, she's hardly even aware of what he's saying, nestled safely in his arms, she's asleep before her head even hits the pillow._

 

The memory had come to her unbidden and Roxy curses herself; now isn't the time for tears. She has no reason to cry since she's going to find him. She will. Even though she can't see him anywhere ahead of her, even though her arms ache and her lungs burn as she swims against the strong current, she's positive she'll find him. It certainly doesn't help that it's night and he'd been wearing all black, but even the red rider is impossible to pick out from the inky black water.

 

Her teeth are chattering by the time she spots something bobbing in the water a few yards ahead of her. Roxy pushes herself over as fast as she can manage, hoping against hope that this will be the end of her search. And there is Martin, floating face down in the Thames before her. Panicked, she quickly rolls him onto his back.

 

"Uncle Martin!" Roxy gasps, trying to keep afloat and inspect him all at once.

 

The copper tang of blood assaults her nose as she gets him on his back. His face is pale and his chest still. For a moment she thinks to press her ear to his chest to listen for a heartbeat, but she knows every second she wastes here is a second longer to get him proper help. Instead, she positions herself to float with him against her, keeping his head resting on her shoulder and above the water. 

 

"I've got you," she promises him.

 

The awkward backstroke towards shore is twice as hard as the swim out. She nearly wants to scream in frustration with how long it's taking, wishing she were stronger. As it is, she doesn't think Martin's chances are good, but with how long she's taking to bring him back to shore... She needs to try harder.

 

"Don't die," Roxy begs him, though her lungs scream at her for wasting her breath on speaking. "Please don't die."

 

By the time she hears James splashing into the river to come to her aid, she can barely feel her arm, her extremities numb with cold. It doesn't stop her from helping to lift Martin out of the water and onto the riverbank. But as they set him down, she realizes they have company. This woman is also clad in riding leathers but seems more interested in helping them rather than hurting them. She's dark-skinned, her brown hair pulled back in a neat twist and her dark eyes radiating calm intelligence in a way that oddly reminds Roxy of Harry Hart.

 

"Name's Revere," the woman says, extending a hand. "I work for the Sons of Liberty. We're a sister organization of yours."

 

Roxy hesitantly shakes her hand, looking to James for guidance. He shakes his head, clearly no wiser on the matter than she is. But right now, all of that hardly matters.

 

"We have to get him help," Roxy declares. "I'll start CPR if - "

 

"Whoa, whoa, no need for all of that. I've got you covered. Just gimme a little room to work here," Revere assures her.

 

Roxy does as the woman says, much to her own surprise. All the same, she hovers close by, unwilling to leave Martin with this Revere woman even if she truly does intend on helping them. She watches along with James as the woman reaches inside her jacket, pulling out a number of translucent pads. Setting them aside for the moment, she quickly pulls Martin's tie free before taking two fistfuls of his shirt and tugging. Buttons pop as she rips the shirt open and idly Roxy thinks to herself how Martin would be furious to see she hadn't taken the time to unbutton it properly. His undershirt comes next, Revere slicing it neatly up the middle with a knife she'd pulled from a holster at her thigh. 

 

With all the layers removed, they can begin to get a good look at the damage. Roxy feels her eyes welling with tears at the sight of the horrific wound to his right shoulder, still bleeding heavily. His torso is littered with bruises already and a quick look tells her a number of his ribs must be broken. His right arm rests at an awkward angle - also broken, she concludes - and blood flows freely from a wound at his temple. And these are just the things she can see. The woman begins applying the patches to whatever wounds she can see and as Roxy watches, she's not sure if she's shaking from cold or from fear.

 

Revere sticks each pad with two prongs at either end, depressing them until the pads begin to swell, something colorful swirling inside of them. Revere moves to place the final pad over his mouth - the sight of pinkish foam dribbling past his lips turns Roxy's stomach. She doesn't want to think the worst, but it's nearly impossible not to with what she's looking at. When the pad is placed and inflated, Roxy isn't expecting much, but to her shock, Martin's chest begins to rise and fall evenly.

 

"Oh god, he's breathing," James says in a shaky exhale. "Oh thank god."

 

"For now," Revere warns them. "This is just a temporary fix. He's gonna need some serious medical attention and quick if we want to keep him that way."

 

The woman taps the side of the sunglasses on her face and begins to ask someone for an extraction. She's laid her coat over Martin along with James's jacket, and seeing that he's safe for the moment, Roxy and James retreat to the car with the excuse of checking the dogs.

 

"I don't trust her," Roxy declares, arms folded over her chest.

 

"I don't either. Or at least, I'm not so stupid as to do so just because she's shown up to lend a helping hand," James says. He sighs heavily, looking as tired as Roxy feels. "But as uncertain as we may be about her motives, we haven't got any other options readily available to us. And Martin..."

 

Roxy nods hurriedly, in full agreement. If this woman is offering to help Martin, then they'll go along with her, if only for that purpose. They'll deal with the rest as it comes. Roxy's teeth chatter as the wind hits her full force where she stands dripping upon the riverbank. With a slightly guilty look, James ducks into the car, retrieving a large blanket packed in one of their duffels and wrapping it around her. He herds her close, rubbing his hands up and down her arms and back, trying to bring some warmth back to her. She presses herself against him, hiding her face in his shirt. She doesn't mean to, but her breathing grows heavy, weighted down with oncoming tears. James hushes her quietly, rubbing her back.

 

"It's alright," he soothes her. "It's going to be alright."

 

"But Uncle Martin..." she protests, her words waterlogged.

 

"Roxanne, you were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Don't pull that blame on your shoulders, do you understand?" James says firmly. He draws back just enough to brush her hair from her face, wiping away a few stray tears for good measure. "Martin will be _so proud_  when we tell him. Just you wait and see."

 

His words are confident, but his eyes are as wet as her own. They're both distracted by a loud splashing sound coupled with Revere's infuriated cry. Roxy turns in her uncle's grasp to find the source of the commotion, only for her jaw to drop at what looks like some kind of submarine breaching the surface of the Thames.

 

"You're supposed to be _spies_ , goddammit!" Revere is shouting. "Exactly what about popping up in the middle of the Thames is _subtle_!?"

 

The hatch opens and two twin girls lean out with wide grins, speaking in unison. "Sorry, Revere!"

 

They don't seem all that sorry. They're small, sleight girls of Asian descent. Long brown hair is pulled up in two cute pigtails on either side of their heads and they both wear heavily patched jackets that seem to be a few sizes too large for either of them. As Roxy and James draw near, Revere waves a hand.

 

"Meet Allicocke and Hancock. Or Ally and Hanny, if you like. Ally on the left and Hanny on the right," Revere explains.

 

"We're the Cock Twins!" the girls chorus merrily, shooting them finger guns for good measure.

 

"Good lord," James breathes.

 

"I promise we are a professional intelligence agency," Revere says with the air of a weary mother who has fought this battle too many times.

 

"Where's my patient?"

 

A slim Asian woman departs down the ramp, wheeling a gurney. She sports a white lab coat, her short, dark hair parted neatly at the right. Unlike the two young girls, this woman screams professionalism.

 

"And this is Warren, our physician," Revere advises them. She leads the doctor to Martin and Roxy and James join her. "Right here. It's pretty bad. I'm not sure how much you'll be able to do for him on board the Yorktown."

 

"Let's get him on board first," Warren decides. "And don't go underestimating me yet. At the very least, I'll get him back to base alive."

 

The four of them lift Martin together, Warren pulling James along to help push the gurney back onto the ship. Roxy stands where she is, at something of a loss. She doesn't want to trust these people, but deep down, something is telling her she should. But whether that's borne of her worry for Martin or a genuine gut instinct, she's in no position to say. She feels a hand on her shoulder.

 

"You're Lancelot, right?" Revere asks her.

 

Roxy nods numbly.

 

"Why don't you go on ahead and follow after Warren and your uncle?" Revere instructs her. "The twins and I will see to your gear and your dogs; you go be with your family."

 

Roxy swallows thickly, not wanting to give in to the sudden rush of gratitude she feels, but unable to block it out. "Thank you."

 

"Don't sweat it," Revere says with a warm smile. "I promise everything will make more sense once we get back to the US."

 

Again Roxy nods in thanks, trudging towards the waiting ramp of the submersible - apparently known as The Yorktown. She doesn't know what to expect or who to trust, but for the time being, all of that is out of her hands. All she can do is pray they've made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry for the long wait. It has been... a very stressful week aha. Just so everyone has a better visual:
> 
> [War](http://p3.pstatp.com/large/1bf700195e38d6961d6b) \- Tilda Swinton  
> [Revere](http://cdn.styleblazer.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/wenn20106636.jpg?x74375) \- Thandie Newton  
> [Allicocke](http://dmr.nosdn.127.net/igKyq70dGVEUga8G9EWgXg==/6896093022322116764.jpg) & [Hancock](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DBEgv1SVwAAbq-6.jpg:large) \- Both are Im Yoona  
> [Warren](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/ae/79/ee/ae79ee7f58781fa044cd95e4488094f3.jpg) \- Yo Yoshida


	3. (*) this is how a heart breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is like a mean machine  
> It made a mess outta me  
> It left me caught between  
> Like an angry dream I was stranded, I was stranded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that the (*) in this chapter title refers to a break from the 'verse crafted by Lywinis and myself!
> 
> tw: major character death, suicide

Harry Hart is a dutiful man.

 

He knows he has a great deal of work ahead of him. Rebuilding Kingsman, filling the ranks, re-establishing themselves as an independent intelligence agency... All these things now rest on his shoulders. However much he may want to turn those duties over to someone else, he knows he would never be able to. He would never truly want to leave Kingsman in someone else's hands. But at the moment, he finds all he wants is rest.

 

He's weary in the sort of way that he's sure can't be cured simply through sleep. It penetrates down to his bones, through to his core, and somehow deeper still. A raw ache that he can find no relief from.

 

There are few people left in the world whom Harry would seek out for advice. Knocking on the door before him, he wonders if perhaps the man on the other side may be the last.

 

"Come in."

 

Harry opens the door when he's given permission to enter, stepping inside and quietly closing the door behind him. A man sits in a wheelchair at the far window, gazing out straight ahead, all day, every day, since Harry had discovered him alive.

 

By some small miracle, Percival had survived the missile strike to his home, though he had sustained heavy injuries resulting in paralysis from the waist down. Martin is Harry's friend and colleague of nearly twenty-five years, which is why it's so difficult to see him sit in this room day in and day out, so devoid of spirit.

 

"Hello, Martin," Harry greets, sitting himself in the chair opposite his friend.

 

"Hello, Harry," Martin answers, eyes never leaving the window.

 

"How are you today?" Harry asks.

 

"As I am every day," Martin replies. "And yourself?"

 

Harry sucks in a slow breath. "One day at a time."

 

"Yes. I suppose that's all you can do."

 

Harry nods silently, watching his friend for a time. He has to wonder what it is Martin gains from sitting at this window every day. Given that he was blinded in the the attack, it's hardly as though he can watch the world outside. It feels wrong, in a way, to ask this of him but Harry can honestly say there is no one else who can help him in this matter.

 

"Martin, there's something I'd like to ask you," Harry tells him.

 

"Oh?" Martin says, sounding intrigued.

 

"Yes. I realize... it's a difficult question to ask. But if I could ask it of anyone else, please know that I would," Harry assures him.

 

"Come now, Harry, you're not one to dance around the subject," Martin reminds him. "Ask what it is you'd like to ask."

 

"With recent events, I..." Harry begins. He comes to a halt, words failing him. Choking back the flood of emotion threatening to overtake him, he draws a steadying breath and continues. "When James was killed, how did you cope? How did you live with it?"

 

Martin laughs.

 

"I'm sorry," Martin says, as though sensing Harry's shock. "It's just that Merlin asked me the same thing after we thought _you'd_ been killed."

 

"...I see," Harry answers numbly. "And what advice did you give him?"

 

Here Martin falls silent, taking a detour from the bitter humor that seems to account for most of his mood these days. Harry doesn't dare disrupt him, wondering what could possibly be going through his mind, wondering what sorts of emotions his question may have stirred up.

 

"Eggsy."

 

Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "Eggsy?" he echoes.

 

"When James was killed, I hardly knew what to do with myself. Or at least that would've been the case had I not had Roxanne," Martin tells him. "She... understood. She felt his loss as deeply as I did. And she looked to me for guidance. It was so much easier to manage my own pain when I had her to mentor. I couldn't replace James nor could I forget him, but in devoting myself to Roxanne's growth... I found a measure of peace."

 

He pauses here again and Harry can't help the sudden sadness that echoes through him. Martin seems so much like the old Martin just now... He wishes it would last. But he knows better than to be so optimistic.

 

"I'll tell you now what I told him then: hold on to Eggsy. That boy loves you, Harry, more than anything. Loved Merlin, too," Martin says quietly. "Hold on to the fact that you're needed. Because he does need you. No matter how confident and sure-footed he may seem, when he needs advice - and he will - he will always come back to you. Talk to him. Talk about Merlin with him. Hold nothing back. It will never be enough to completely mend the void Merlin has left behind... but it will help."

 

Somehow, Harry feels he had already known this. Perhaps he'd been looking for confirmation. Or hoping Martin would tell him that the pain would disappear one day altogether. But he knows that could simply never be.

 

Merlin was a part of him and always would be. To erase the pain he feels would be to erase Merlin himself and he would much rather suffer this agony than take away the years they'd had together. It had not been perfect, there were years sometimes where they hadn't talked apart from work, they were never allowed to _just be_ , and still he would never give it up.

 

To share all of this with Eggsy... The mere thought makes his chest tight and his eyes sting. To look back on memories of the man no longer at his side feels a cruel punishment. But in its own way, he supposes it's a way for Merlin to live again. To Eggsy, Harry's old memories will be new stories, something to carry with him and think of when sadness takes hold of him. They had been happy. Not all the time and not always together, but Merlin had brought Harry a happiness that he wouldn't have believed possible in his life before they'd met.

 

Harry can't tell if this knowledge gives him a sense of relief or if it has merely left him damned to a life of forever feeling as though he's missing a limb.

 

Martin has been silent all this while, knowing, somehow, that Harry needed the time to think. But while he has done this, another question has slowly formed in the back of his mind, one he's afraid to know the answer to. Without James, without Roxy, how will Martin cope?

 

"Thank you, Martin," Harry says. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your thoughts on the matter... as well as your advice to Merlin."

 

"Harry, you've played advisor and soothsayer to myself and to James more times than I can count. Reciprocity should go without saying," Martin replies easily.

 

"I would also hope that my role of 'advisor and soothsayer' as you have put it, hasn't come to an end," Harry declares as he rises from his seat. "If there should ever be something weighing upon your mind..."

 

"Thank you, Harry," Martin answers. He closes his eyes, with a soft sigh. "I'm sorry, I'm feeling a bit tired just now."

 

"No apologies necessary," Harry says. He places his hands on Martin's shoulders, squeezing reassuringly. "Rest. We can talk any time."

 

Martin merely nods in response. Harry draws away, retreating towards the door and leaving Martin basking in the sunlight filtering through the window.

 

"Harry?"

 

He pauses with his hand upon the door, twisting to look back at their Percival.

 

"You'll make a brilliant Arthur. I want you to know that. If anyone can do this it's you."

 

For a moment, looking at Martin across the room, Harry envisions a different time. When they were all together, alive, safe, giving James grief over his latest stunt. They'd been happy then, never imagining it could ever change so drastically, so suddenly. Like that the moment is gone, leaving only two broken old men and the empty space between them.

 

"I shall endeavor to live up to your expectations," Harry answers. "Good afternoon, Martin."

 

"Goodbye, Harry."

 

He exits the way he'd come, the door clicking shut softly behind him and silence descending upon the room once more.

 

 

* * *

 

Harry stands in the chill of the medical wing's back room, staring down at the white cloth draped over the body on the table.

 

"An accident. He must not have realized the stairs were there," the former Ginger Ale-turned-Agent Whiskey informs him sadly. "I know you probably don't want the details, but... his neck was broken on impact. It would have been quick and painless."

 

Harry merely nods, his lone eye never leaving the white cloth. Whiskey seems to take this as her cue to leave. Clipboard tucked to her chest, expression mournful, she pats Harry on the arm sympathetically.

 

"I'll give you some time alone."

 

"Thank you, Agent Whiskey," Harry answers as he hears her leave the room.

 

He stands in silence, replaying his last interaction with Martin. He had wondered what Martin would do without James or Roxy. He wonders now if it would have made a difference if he'd asked. Somehow, he knows it wouldn't have.

 

_Goodbye, Harry._

 

It had seemed an odd response at the time, but he'd attributed it to Martin simply being tired. Now he looks back at it and sees it for what it truly was: a farewell. There had been no accident. He knows this.

 

Part of Harry is bitterly angry at being left alone, the only one of the four of them left. Another part can't begrudge Martin his choice; he can't say the thought of joining Merlin hasn't crossed his mind more than once. However he may feel about the matter, it doesn't change the fact that he's lost yet another friend. Another name added to the list of those mourned, one less face he will see from this day forward.

 

Well, if there's anything after this life, he can at least be content with the fact that they're all together. Someday he may even join them. But not anytime soon, he decides. Not while Eggsy still looks to him as a mentor and Kingsman lies in shambles. Though his heart is heavy, he had taken Martin's words and molded himself to them. Merlin is gone, whisked away by his own stupidly selfless action, but Harry will go on.

 

Harry places his hand on the sheet, resting on the forehead of the body beneath. Martin isn't here, he knows. This is just a body, just flesh and bone. Even still, he bends over to press a kiss to the forehead on which his hand rests.

 

"Goodnight, Percival."

 

Harry Hart draws himself up. His phone buzzes in his pocket with Eggsy's incoming call. He draws the phone from his pocket and presses it to his ear. The door closes softly behind him and he does not look back.


	4. headcount

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't pray for us  
> We don't need no modern Jesus  
> To roll with us  
> The only rule we need is never  
> Giving up  
> The only faith we have is faith in us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the other half of [Rewriting History](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165312/chapters/27794424) by Lywinis. If you're not reading "Photographs and Memories" already, you really should!

Much like Kingsman, The Sons of Liberty uses a storefront as an entryway to their base of operations. Number Seven Acorn Street sits atop Beacon Hill in Boston, lined with cobblestones and gas lamps. It is here, tucked quietly away and nestled among the residences, is The Sons of Liberty; publishing company and purveyor of rare books and antiquities.

 

Hidden away as it is, you would think it would receive very little business. Yet you would be entirely wrong. Day in and day out, from open until close, the shop is filled with the curious, seekers of knowledge, adventurers of a different sort. Still, there is always a seat available to anyone who should wish to while away the hours in any of their many reading rooms. Though, if one should make their way to Reading Room B and turn the right corner of the framed copy of _The Declaration of Independence_ three inches to the right, they just may find that the bookcase to the rear of the room has depressed and slid away to the right.

 

Behind this bookcase is a large antechamber leading to a network of underground tunnels, at the end of which there is a salt water reservoir. Housed here are some twenty or so small submersibles, each capable of carrying a maximum of four people. These autopiloted watercars (affectionately known as "duckboats" by the agents who utilize them) then traverse some five miles underwater before delivering their passengers to Spectacle Island. With over 105 sprawling acres available, Spectacle Island had been procured by the agency's founders as the location where they would erect their headquarters and training grounds. 

 

This is where James Spencer and Roxy Morton now find themselves.

 

They had arrived three days prior and had been assured by Revere that their leader - whose codename was Adams - would be meeting with them personally to explain the situation and answer any questions they had. However, it had been decided that they should first take time to rest. With Martin in surgery, it was understood that their attention would stray from business matters until they knew how he fared.

 

Revere had been kind enough to show them around as well as offer an explanation as to who they were. The Sons of Liberty is an independent intelligence agency much like Kingsman. The reason they know about Kingsman and not the reverse? Namely, Chester King. Their former Arthur had a bit of a quibble with the Sons leader, Adams, a few decades back. He'd done his best to isolate their agency from any others, believing them capable of handling matters entirely on their own. 

 

There's another sister organization down south known as the Statesman. They operate out of a distillery - and make a pretty penny doing it. The United States being as expansive as it is, one intelligence agency wouldn't do. So the two of them have worked side by side for nearly the entirety of their existence. The Sons had been investigating a potential traitor inside of Statesman and, not knowing how deep the rabbit hole went, they'd primarily gone dark over the past few weeks. But apparently now that's all been sorted. And that's primarily who they are and what they do. The rest could be explained by Adams when they met.

 

Right now however, Roxy idly scrolls through her phone, not paying very much attention to what it is she's looking at. Warren had taken Martin in for his third round of surgery over five hours ago. As of yet, they hadn't seen him since they had disembarked alongside him from the Yorktown. A picture stares up at her from her phone's screen, as though she had subconsciously sought it out. If anyone else looked at the photo, they would have never guessed the three people in it were merely putting on a front to bide their time.

 

She and James sport bright smiles and even Martin has managed to muster one as well (smaller though it may be) as she snaps a picture of them on the Tower Bridge walkway. If she strips the context away, they look like a happy family on a proper holiday. And yet less than an hour later, she would be pulling Martin's lifeless body from the Thames. They had lost him twice en route to the island. Twice more during surgery.

 

Roxy turns her head, setting her sights on James. Though otherwise well put together, her uncle's face makes his exhaustion apparent. Deep bruises underline his eyes. His face is pale and pinched with concern. His eyes are wide and round, staring vacantly at the space before him and not truly seeing anything. A tremor has made itself at home in his hands, which can never seem to remain still even when Roxy holds them in her own. If Martin should not survive (the mere thought brings bile up the back of her throat), she's not certain James will survive either. 

 

Feeling she should do something, Roxy leans into him, wrapping an arm around him and resting her head on his shoulder. James responds almost reflexively, wrapping an arm around her as well and holding her close. The number of times she's sat with him like this, seeking comfort for anything from a fight with her parents to an exam that hadn't gone as well as she'd planned, is too many to put a number to. Right this moment, however, she's certain James is the one who needs it most. He holds her the way a child holds their teddy bear, pressing his face to the top of her head and breathing deeply.

 

James has always been bright and cheerful, the optimist in any group. The dark cloud hanging over him has smothered that like the flame on a candle being snuffed. It's how he'd first been when they'd recovered him from Valentine's compound. Seeing him that way had hurt her in a way she'd never felt before; it wasn't something you could banish with a kiss or loving words. It had taken time for him to seem like his old self and more recently he'd been doing so well. But now with all of this...

 

"He wouldn't be pleased to see us sitting here like this," Roxy tells him.

 

"No, he wouldn't. And then he'd demand to know if I'd been looking after his pricklies," James says with a fond huff of laughter.

 

Martin has something of a green thumb, though his preference has always been for cacti. He has quite the collection, refusing to allow the Kingsman groundskeepers to care for them simply because he's certain they'll not do it as well as he does. Once in a while, you can catch him talking to them when he thinks he's alone. He names them. She knows he thinks they don't know, but they do. Just as she knows he named four of them "James" after his supposed death. Just as she knows there is now one named "Harry" as well. (Incidentally, these had been among the things James had brought with them.)

 

"Well he'll be very glad when you tell him you've been taking very good care of them," Roxy assures him.

 

James doesn't respond verbally. He makes a small, uncertain noise and Roxy's worry only deepens. James isn't sure that Martin will make it. That's what that noise means. He's too afraid of getting his hopes up to agree with her and say he'll be able to talk to Martin about his plants later.

 

They hear the sound of a door opening and closing and when they look up, they're greeted by the sight of Warren approaching them. They both jump out of their seats, bounding over to meet the good doctor before she's a quarter of the way to them. She appears understandably exhausted, her expression reserved but not unhappy.

 

"He's stable," Warren tells them before they can get a word in. "For the time being."

 

"What does that mean?" Roxy asks.

 

Warren sighs. "I was able to repair most of the damage or at the very least begin the healing process. However due to a combination of factors including the fact that we don't know just how long his brain was without oxygen... he's slipped into a coma. One he won't be waking from soon. It's too early to forecast if he ever will wake or whether there is any significant brain damage, but  _will_ live, I'm confident of that."

 

James exhales shakily beside her, the heel of his palm pressed to his forehead as he tries his best to compose himself.

 

"Can we see him?" he asks.

 

"You can. He's stablized enough for visitors now," Warren replies with a nod. She holds up a warning hand when James seems about to surge through the door. "It won't be a pretty sight, but don't be intimidated by all the equipment. He's doing as well as can be expected in his case."

 

James nods. "Thank you. Thank you for..."

 

Tears fill his eyes and his throat catches. Roxy watches as Warren simply offers him a small, understanding smile and pats him on the arm before gesturing towards the door. James reaches for Roxy's hand and Roxy finds herself glad that he had, needing the contact as much as he does. 

 

The door leads them to a small entryway, clearly intended for decontamination when necessary. In their case, some hand sanitizer is about all that's needed before they proceed to the second door. Roxy can feel her uncle shaking as he slowly pushes it open. Her heart is pounding as they creep inside the room, quiet as church mice.

 

"Christ," James breathes beside her.

 

Warren had said there would be a great deal of equipment and she hadn't been exaggerating. The figure lying prone in the bed is practically surrounded, his chest rising and falling with each mechanical breath pumped into his lungs. They move closer, still so silent, but for what reason she's not sure. Martin lies eerily still before them with the blanket pulled up to his waist. Though there is no hospital gown to cover him for ease of access, you'd be hard pressed to find an inch of bare skin between the gauze and bandages. His right arm is elevated, bound inside a cast, and his right shoulder is wrapped with enough bandages to give a mummy a severe case of envy.

 

The breathing tube is held in place by a strap fitted around his head, with the nasogastric tube leading from his nose taped to it for stability. _Punctured lung_ , her brain reminds her. Six broken ribs. Ruptured spleen. Heavy internal bleeding. Fractured pelvis. Skull fracture. Three separate fractures to the right radius and ulna. Fractured clavicle and --

 

She has to stop herself. Rattling it off inside her head only seems to make it worse. Warren had said he would live. They have to focus on that. 

 

"Oh, _Martin_..."

 

Roxy sees James on his knees at the side of the bed, Martin's left hand held in his own as he cards his fingers through dark hair which is just beginning to see its first streaks of grey. He doesn't bother holding back tears any longer. His shoulders shake with silent sobs as he presses his face to the bed beside his partner. Roxy approaches from the right side now, reaching out to stroke Martin's cheek. His skin is cool to the touch and she can't help but remember how cold he'd been when they'd pulled him from the Thames. Sniffling absently, she brushes back a few stray hairs from his forehead before she leans in and places a kiss on his cheek.

 

"Hello, Uncle Martin," Roxy says, trying her best to sound cheerful. "Uncle James and I are so glad to see you. We know you'll need a lot of rest to recover, but that's alright. We'll both be here, so you can take your time. We'll wait as long as it takes for you to wake up. Alright?"

 

Talking to people in comas is supposed to help, she's been told. But she wonders if her words are reaching him. Or if he's still in there to be reached. The thought turns her stomach and she quickly shoves it away.

 

"Martin, you great bloody idiot," James says tearfully, gazing up at him from where he's rested his head on the bed. "This is even worse than Nepal. You remember that one, don't you? Tried to convince me there was nothing the matter with a fucking  _bone_ sticking out of your leg. What _is_ your fascination with jumping off bridges? Because this is starting to become a trend I don't like."

 

"We should book a bungee jumping course," Roxy said with a soft laugh. "Let you get it out of your system."

 

"Perfect. You'll wake up and we'll all go bungee jumping off the biggest bloody bridge we can find," James adds. Roxy hears the way his voice just narrowly avoids breaking. "So that's a promise, alright? All you have to do is just wake up. Just... Open your eyes. That's all."

 

Roxy swallows back the oncoming tears, staying them as best she can. For a moment the room is silent apart from the beep of the machines and the air sound of the ventilator and James's heavy breathing as he does his best to control himself.

 

"Please wake up."

 

She has to turn her face away to hurriedly wipe away the tears that have stubbornly refused to be held captive any longer. James sounds so broken; beaten in a way not even all those months in Valentine's cell had been able to accomplish. Walking around to the other side of the bed, she kneels beside him and places a hand on his back. Her left hand travels to where James's lies beneath Martin's, gently holding it as though he's afraid it may break. She rests her hand on top of theirs, placing Martin's hand between hers and James's.

 

Everything will be alright.

 

Martin will be fine.

 

He will.

 

They have to believe that.

 

 

* * *

 

There's a light knock on the door that rouses Roxy from the doze she'd slipped into. The clock tells her it's been close to eight hours since they'd been allowed to see Martin and she wonders exactly when she nodded off. Clearing her throat, she calls for then to enter. Revere appears in the doorway, seeming sorry to disturb them.

 

"Evening. Sorry to disturb so late," she says, slowly walking into the room. The American agent takes it all in for herself, judging the doctor's handiwork before looking back to Roxy. "Have either of you slept? Eaten?"

 

"I think... I may have dozed off," Roxy admits. She glances over at the bed, seeing that James's chair is still pulled up to the side of the bed, his head still resting beside his partner as it had been. "I think Uncle James may be sleeping though."

 

"I'm awake," comes his reply, despite the fact that he makes no effort to move or greet their visitor.

 

"I get that you probably don't want to leave him, but Adams is requesting your presence in the library," Revere tells them. "She's on a conference call with the head of Statesman. Apparently they've recovered some of your people as well."

 

James shoots up at the same time that Roxy jumps out of her seat. Recovered some of their people. They're not alone. Someone else had survived all of this. Roxy tries not to get too hopeful, but she finds herself thinking only of Eggsy and Merlin. She's nearly quivering in anticipation, desperate to see who it is that has made it through with them.

 

"We'll be back shortly, darling," James says, leaning over the bed to press a kiss to Martin's forehead. "And it sounds like it will be with good news."

 

Roxy and James follow Revere from the room, though not without one last glance back at Martin as they exit. The American seems sympathetic to their plight, her eyebrows pulled into a frown.

 

"Warren's amazing, you know. He couldn't be in any better hands than hers," she assures them. "I get that's probably small consolation, but I thought you might prefer to know that he hadn't been dropped in the lap of some back alley surgeon."

 

"No, thank you, we really do appreciate it," Roxy replies. "I'm certain she's more than qualified. This whole ordeal has just been very trying, that's all."

 

Revere nodded, hands tucked into her pockets as she lead them through the halls. "I can't imagine being in the same position. I'm lucky my wife's usually in her lab or the command center. Having her out in the field with me... Must be hard for you, James."

 

"It has been, at times. But I wouldn't change it," James answers, his eyes taking on a far away look for a moment. He glances up again, something having piqued his curiosity. "But you said your wife?"

 

Revere laughs almost bashfully, rubbing her hands together. "Ah, yeah. Her codename is Franklin. She's our tech expert. Quartermaster. Handler. Basically she's what's between all of us and a very messy death. You'll meet her soon, I'm sure."

 

It's only now that Roxy notices the slim rose gold band on Revere's left ring finger. A wedding ring. It sets off a complicated string of emotions inside her. It's wonderful to see an organization that not only supports marriage between its agents, but same-sex marriage as well. But it makes her think of how long her uncles had been denied that right for so long. Not even just marriage either. Simply being together was not an option. They'd had to conduct themselves in secret, often going to extremes to be sure they wouldn't be caught so much as standing too close to one another.

 

Harry and Merlin had done so even longer. Oh, she knows. They don't know that she knows, but she does. Not that she would ever tell anyone. She knows full well the dangers of outing any of them in the kind of high society they'd all been born into. It's a danger she's more familiar with than most of them know.

 

"I hope we do," Roxy says with a bright smile.

 

"Likewise," James says, his smile as large as she's seen it in days.

 

Their responses seem to genuinely please their host, who nods to herself as though she's reached some sort of conclusion. It isn't long before they reach a pair of large, ornate wooden doors. Roxy's sure they each must weigh a few tons. Revere walks over to the wall beside them and stops in front of what looks like a card reader upon the wall. She raises her hand and positions her wrist so that the face of the watch she wears is directly in front of it. There's a soft beep and a small green light blinks three times before the massive doors begin to creak open with the sound of heavy cogs in motion.

 

The room which greets them is utterly cavernous, the ceiling well over 100 feet above them, painted with angelic figures that look as though they belong in a Vatican chapel. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling and the room is bright with white shelves and walls, accented in gleaming hold. High arched windows give them a perfect view of the night sky and Roxy is certain the room would be even more beautiful drenched in early morning sun. The whole room is so breathtaking, she feels the word 'library' does it justice.

 

But presently, her attention is drawn to the woman sitting at the head of the table. An older woman, with dark skin and coiffed grey hair, she's speaking at a large screen which seems to have come up from within the table. There is an air of elegance and dignity about her that leaves Roxy unsurprised that she is the leader of this organization.

 

"We couldn't be sure how deep the rabbit hole went, and so we had to step back and bide our time. It seems fortunate that we did, as in doing so, we came across three of your agents; one of whom was grievously injured."

 

She turns now to look in their direction and beckons with one hand.

 

"Diani, my dear, send them in please."

 

Revere nods, her arm outstretched as she ushers them towards the table. The woman - Adams, Philomena Fox, Roxy recalls from conversations with Revere - wears a soft, beatific smile as she watches them approach. Roxy can't help but return the smile, the same warm feeling in her stomach as when she used to visit her great-grandmother as a child. James reaches the table just ahead of her and when he faces the screen, the smile is immediately wiped from his face.

 

_"Good lord. James, is that you?"_

 

The shock in the man's voice comes across loud and clear. What's more is that the voice is terribly familiar. She rushes to join James - who leans so far forward he's practically lying atop the table - and as she reaches him, the face of dearly departed Harry Hart greets her from the screen.

 

"My god... _Harry_. My god, it is you."

 

"Galahad?" Roxy murmurs, sure her eyes must be as round as saucers.

 

"No, no, we've got that all sorted. You may address him Arthur now," Adams says from her seat.

 

Roxy blurts the very next thing that comes to her mind. "Where's Eggsy?"

 

She swears she sees a small, fond smile form on Harry's face. Eggsy. Her best friend, her partner in crime. Of course it was the first place her mind had gone. Eggsy was so attached to Harry, she didn't even waste the time asking whether he was even alive. She'd just assumed. But his faint smile puts her at ease.

 

_"He's currently in Sweden, perfectly safe. He's due to return in three days' time,"_ Harry relates back to them.

 

Relief comes to her in a sudden rush, leaving her light-headed, the sensation of pins and needles dotting her skin. Eggsy is alive. Eggsy is alive and she could see him in as little as three days. It's some of the best news she's had in days. However, as she looks to Harry's image upon the screen, she sees his smile replaced with a frown of confusion.

 

_"Adams said there were three of you. Where's -- "_

 

It takes a fraction of a second for realization to alight upon his features.

 

_"Percival,"_ Harry says, leaning forward. _"Where is he?"_

 

"In the infirmary, sir," Roxy answers. It feels a struggle to make her mouth move, but James seems incapable of voicing his partner's condition to Harry. She reaches out, squeezing his hand. "He was... We lost him a few times along the way, but he's sleeping peacefully now. Was anyone else recovered?"

 

_"It's down to Merlin, Eggsy and myself on this end,"_ Harry says shaking his head.

 

That same swooping sensation of relief. Merlin. Eggsy and Merlin had both survived. That kind of luck shouldn't be possible, but she won't dare question it.

 

"Merlin! Well, where is the old goat? Would've thought we'd need a crowbar to pry you two apart now that you're Arthur," James says, brightened considerably by the knowledge that his two friends were alive. A dark shadow passes over their new Arthur's face and Roxy feels her sudden joy go tumbling out the window with James's. "Oh... Oh no. Harry, what's happened?"

 

Harry's lone eye lowers briefly before the floor before finding them again. _"He's in much the same state as Percival, I'd imagine. The details aren't important just this moment. Lancelot."_

 

The sudden crisp tone of authority has them both standing at attention like proper soldiers.

 

"Sir," she says.

 

...only to find James has answered as well. They offer each other a brief, bewildered look before James adopts a somewhat bashful expression as he recalls that title is no longer his to answer to. The man beside Harry - the head of Statesman she assumes - seems to find this all quite amusing.

 

_"Rendezvous with us here at the Statesman compound. I will be phoning Galahad as well and alerting him to recent events,"_ Harry says, hands folded neatly behind his back. His gaze travels to Adams, his look questioning. _"So long as it is safe for Percival to be transported...?"_

 

Adams nods. "Our physician has assured me he's stable enough to be moved, though he is still comatose. It will require some delicacy, but nothing my people can't handle. You'll have your agents by teatime tomorrow."

 

Roxy sees a genuine smile take up residence on Harry's face as he bends at the hip in a bow. _"My lady, you cannot begin to comprehend what this means to me, nor the depth of my gratitude for it. You have recovered and cared for three of my most stellar agents, but more importantly, three people who are very dear to me. Should I ever be in the position to even begin to repay my debt, you need only say the word."_

 

"Charming," Adams says. She wears an easy, pleased smile as Harry straightens to look to her once more. Roxy can see for herself that she means it in nothing but the most sincere sense. "Much better than your predecessors."

 

"Well, I believe we have a winner for understatement of the year," James snorts, only to grunt as Roxy elbows him sharply in his ribcage.

 

But Adams doesn't appear to be the least bit offended. Roxy hears a small chuckle before her attention is on Harry once more.

 

"I look forward to working with you, Arthur."

 

_"And I, you,"_ Harry answers.

 

The call ends and Roxy can't help but feel a bit disappointed it hadn't gone on any longer. But now that it has concluded, Adams has her full attention on them and Roxy finds herself brimming with curiosity.

 

"Please, sit," Adams says, gesturing to the many seats along the table. "I apologize for bringing you in that way when we hadn't even been properly introduced, but when Champagne said he had three Kingsman agents, I thought you would like to see that for yourselves."

 

"Thank you for that, madame," James says, dipping his head politely. "Frankly, I don't think that was something I would have believed unless I'd seen it with my own eyes."

 

"Of course," Adams responds. "Now, introductions. My name is Philomena Fox and I am the head of this organization. You may choose to call me Adams if you wish, but I find in most cases, 'Mina' will do just as nicely."

 

"Roxy Morton, madame," Roxy says, dipping her head the same way James had. "Otherwise known as Lancelot."

 

"James Spencer," James tacks on. "Otherwise known as the former Lancelot."

 

"Mm-hmm, Spencer, yes," Adams hums to herself. "We have a Spencer here as well. No doubt Agent Swan will be eager to meet you. And your third...?"

 

"Martin Gainsborough," James says solemnly. "Percival. Sometimes you can get away with 'Percy' if he's in a good mood. Although he nearly strangled me when I tried 'Marty' once, so I believe that's off the table."

 

Adams watches them carefully while James speaks. It occurs to Roxy that she must already know all this. She can't imagine they could be here for three days and the head of the organization not even know their names.

 

"I understand the three of you are related as well," Adams says. "You two by blood and Mr. Gainsborough to you romantically, is that correct?"

 

"That's correct," James affirms.

 

Adams clucks her tongue, shaking her head with an unhappy expression. "And to have had to work under Chester King, of all people! Well, there's no need to hide anything here or within Statesman. I believe you'll find Champ and myself to be a bit more open minded than your former Arthur."

 

"I had thought so," Roxy says. "Agent Revere was just telling us about her wife on the walk to the library."

 

"Oh, yes," Adams says, her eyes twinkling and her smile warm. "I suppose the honeymoon mentality hasn't quite worn off yet. They were only wed this past month. Lovely ceremony. Perhaps in the future we might look forward to one from our Kingsman friends?"

 

James huffs a quiet laugh, smiling despite the sadness in his eyes. "Well, I do owe him a proper proposal."

 

"Don't lose heart, my dear," Adams instructs him, patting his hand. "He'll wake, just give him time. I'm sure of it. These bones may be old but when they feel it, you know it's true."

 

"I pray it will be," James answers. "Although speaking of which, I know Harry's just said it, but it bears repeating from me as well. I cannot begin to thank you enough for everything you've done. Admittedly, I had my doubts as to your motives in the beginning, but you've more than banished those doubts. Without your intervention... I'm certain Martin would no longer be with us. For that, for the kindness you've showed my niece and myself, if I'm ever in a position to aid you in any way, I need only your word."

 

"You're a much better breed than some of the former Kingsman I've worked with," Adams tells them. "I believe we can look forward to a very fruitful partnership."

 

They sit for a time with Adams taking their questions and explaining everything to the best of her ability. The more time they spend with her, the more Roxy comes to find her respect for Adams growing. She has a patient, matriarchal air that everyone in the organization seems to hold in very high regard. Intelligent but equipped with a healthy sense of humor, she never at one point in their conversation leaves Roxy feeling as though she's being kept out of the loop. By the end of the conversation, she finds anything that she's asked has been answered without anything other than complete transparency.

 

"Thank you for your patience," James tells her as they rise from their seats. "I'm sure you didn't plan on having to answer quite so many questions."

 

"Not at all. And if you have any more, feel free to reach out to me or my agents at any time, though I'm sure right now you want to get back to Mr. Gainsborough," Adams tells them. "Rest for now. I'll have someone come for you when we're ready to depart."

 

The two of them thank their host sincerely as Revere appears at the door once more to usher them out and back to the infirmary. Adams remains behind in the library, the massive doors creaking shut behind them as they leave. Walking down the hall, Roxy isn't quite sure what to feel at that moment. She's elated that Eggsy is alive and unhurt - and amazed to find Harry is as well. But the news that Merlin had been injured, and badly at that... Harry hadn't specified just how he'd been injured and she finds herself trying not to jump to the worst possible conclusions. 

 

Merlin has been a friend and mentor to both herself and Eggsy; someone they've looked to for direction, for guidance, for support. Barring their little doomsday adventure, she's contented herself with the fact that so long as he was within Central, he was perfectly out of harm's way. With recent events, this was clearly not the case, and that frightens her more than anything.

 

As Revere leaves them alone with Martin, Roxy finds James wastes no time in resuming the spot he'd spent hours in just prior to their meeting. Watching James hold Martin's hand, speaking soft, soothing words, she's struck by a thought.

 

"I was thinking," Roxy says, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. "Perhaps we should try to contact his parents."

 

The change is James's demeanor is immediate. His shoulders draw up tensely, his mouth a thin, angry line.

 

"No," he says simply.

 

"I know Uncle Martin and his parents haven't had a good relationship," Roxy tries again. "But I think, given the circumstances, they might -- "

 

" I said ' _no_ ,' Roxanne," James cuts her off coldly.

 

"We should start least _try,_ " Roxy presses.

 

For a moment, as James turns his attention to her, she thinks he's about to lose his temper. There's anger flashing in his eyes, written in his posture. But not at her. He seems to remember this at the last second, because his expression smoothes out into something softer, almost guilty at the thought if lashing out at her. He sighs, and the sound is so weary it makes her tired simply by having heard it.

 

"Roxy," James tries again. "I know you're doing this because you care but please believe me when I say there is nothing good to be had down that road. I've tried. If you think you're going to be helping Martin by doing this, you're only going to get yourself hurt. Do you understand?"

 

Roxy wants to argue, to tell him that no parents, no matter how terrible their relationship may be, would refuse their son now. She knows the falling out between Martin and his parents had been over his employment with Kingsman and his subsequent refusal to take over the family law firm. But surely that wouldn't be enough to keep them from seeing him now? Not when Martin is...

 

But the look on James's face tells her this isn't an argument she'll be winning. For the moment, she resolves to keep it to herself and look into it later; with or without her uncle's help.

 

"Alright," Roxy says quietly. "I understand."

 

The smile he offers her is no less grateful for its unhappiness and for a moment she can't help but feel guilty knowing she's lying to him. Still, when he holds a hand out to her, she doesn't hesitate to go to him, her arms wrapping around him as his free arm holds her tight.

 

"You're a good girl, Roxy," James tells her, kissing the top of her head. "I know it doesn't make sense, but... it's just the way things are. The only family Martin has ever cared for is in this room or waiting for us to arrive in Louisville."

 

She sighs. "Then let's get to them as soon as possible."


	5. sweet disposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweet disposition  
> Never too soon  
> Oh, reckless abandon  
> Like no one's watching you

**[CENTRAL: 1980]**

 

"Hold still."

 

Callum Hamish Craig stares with wide, round eyes at the young man slowly advancing on him with a net. For a moment he fears this may be another test, one which he is about to fail horribly. Clearly the man is a Kingsman - though not much older than himself, it seems - and after he'd given the order to hold still, Callum can't seem to make himself move even if he wanted to.

 

He'd been minding his own business, he'd thought, after being left here by his... sponsor. (It still felt strange to use that word, but he supposed there wasn't a better one.) Chester King. He'd said to have a look around the grounds while they waited for the other proposals to arrive and that's precisely what he'd been doing. While admiring a particularly lovely patch of mums, a butterfly had flitted into his field of view and landed, of all places, on his nose.

 

Which is precisely when the net-wielding lunatic currently advancing on him had appeared.

 

"Stay very, _very_ still. Do you understand?"

 

"Aye, sir," he whispers, feeling like a man about to face the firing squad.

 

"I've been chasing this little blighter all day. This is the first time I've seen him land this low to the ground," the man says.

 

Although not particularly fond of the idea of that net coming anywhere near his face, Callum supposes the young man  _is_ a Kingsman and must therefore have some way of bagging his prize without breaking Callum's nose. He turns out to be half right. With a shout of triumph, the net comes down. Up goes the butterfly. Down goes Callum. Before he can say precisely what's happened, he finds himself on his back, staring up at a beautiful blue sky.

 

"Blast. Nearly had him there. It was a--... fuck."

 

He hears the sound of hurried footfalls in the grass before the man's face is suddenly hovering over him, blocking his view of the sky. Even without his glasses - where are his glasses? - he can see the man is, well... beautiful, really. Warm chocolate eyes, wavy brown hair that shines with auburn hues in the sunlight, and a handsome face that promises a definite masculine cut when he's aged into it.

 

"Shit," the man says. "Are you alright?"

 

"Did you get him?"

 

"What?"

 

"Your butterfly, sir."

 

"Oh. No. But there will always be other opportunities. Now, let's get you back on your feet, shall we?"

 

Callum doesn't disagree with him on that point, although once he's standing again, he finds the pain in his face becoming more pronounced. If the other man's wince is anything to go by, he guesses it looks about as bad as it feels.

 

"Terribly sorry about that," he says, he takes Callum by the elbow. "Why don't you take a seat over here. I'll fetch some ice."

 

"Oh, no, that's not nec--"

 

"Don't be ridiculous," the young man says, depositing him on a garden bench. "Your eye is swelling up worse than my Uncle Richard after a Christmas roast. _Sit_. I'll only be a moment." 

 

Unsure what else to do, Callum finds himself obeying the man's request once more. What an odd young man, out here catching butterflies. Butterflies! It just seems so... Well, it hardly seems anything like what his sponsor had explained a Kingsman to be. For some reason, however, he finds he rather likes that fact. It's comforting in some way to see a Kingsman still pursuing such a gentle hobby. 

 

Well, _usually_ gentle. His face is disagreeing at the moment.

 

It's shortly thereafter that the young man returns, crossing the expansive lawn between them with a flannel draped over one arm and a bag of ice in his hand. He sits beside Callum on the bench, so close their though touch, and begins to further inspect the damage. With an unhappy cluck of his tongue, he hands the bag of ice to Callum and instructs him to hold it to his left eye.

 

"Thankfully it doesn't seem much worse than a bit of swelling. Though I don't doubt you'll have a lovely spot of bruising to go with it," the young man declares. He gives Callum a proper once over, his eyes sharp and calculating. "You're one of the proposals, then. Mister...?"

 

"Callum Craig," Callum supplies, clearing his throat. He surprises himself; typically, he if he introduced himself to anyone, he uses his middle name, Hamish. And yet he'd felt entirely at ease telling this man his true given name.

 

"Harry Hart," the young man - Harry - says, offering his hand. "Otherwise known as Galahad."

 

"Galahad. It's a pleasure, sir," Callum replies, shaking the proffered hand.

 

Harry laughs, the sound light and easy, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. Callum finds that the butterfly may have escaped, but it must have taken up residence in his stomach for all it's fluttering at a simple laugh.

 

"You're a good liar. That will serve you well as a spy," Harry remarks. He tilts his head curiously, the entirety of his focus on Callum. "Who's your sponsor?"

 

"Chester King, ah, Arthur, I should say," Callum answers.

 

At his response, Harry frowns as though he's just been presented with a particularly interesting equation. "Arthur, eh? Hm. You are... an _unusual_ choice."

 

Callum bristles at the words. There's no mistaking their meaning; namely that he's not _one of them_. An orphan who had aged out of the system in Scotland, earning himself a full scholarship to Oxford by sheer brilliance, only to drop out before completing his degree. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't seem to mesh with the upper class. He tried to ignore their taunts and jibes, their pranks, their incessant need to remind him that he would never amount to so much as a fraction of what they were. He tried to just keep his head down, to just shoulder it and do the work.

 

But he'd always been far too stubborn for that. His temper wouldn't permit him to stay quiet and let their insults bounce off of him. He felt each and every one of them and he did everything he could to give back as good as he got. The only problem with this being that it was one against many and he couldn't fight against the influence of wealthy parents able to convince professors and deans that surely it wasn't _their_ child's fault. How could he fight against a system where he was set up to fail? By walking away.

 

As with so many things in his life, Callum had run away from the problem. And now here he is, setting himself up for the same failure, the same frustration. But Harry seems to read this in his expression because he holds up his hands peaceably.

 

"Don't misunderstand, it's not that I think you shouldn't be here," Harry tells him. "It's simply that Arthur is particularly old fashioned. For him to choose you as his proposal is highly unusual. Frankly, you're more my type."

 

Callum really does hate the way those words sound. Even more so the way that Harry seems to say them as a purposeful double entendre. But Callum knows better than to test those waters; outing himself in any setting is dangerous, but particularly so in this one.

 

"Is your proposal here as well, sir?" Callum asks instead, wishing to detour from the current topic.

 

"My proposal?" Harry echoes curiously. He looks up at the sky for a moment as though seriously considering the matter. "I suppose I should get around to choosing one."

 

Callum is sure his eyes must be bugging out of his face. "You... You've yet to choose one?"

 

"Well, I have until five o'clock this evening," Harry says, as though he has all the time in the world.

 

"You're not worried about being late, sir?"

 

"Not especially," Harry says.

 

"I see," Callum responds slowly. This young man, this Harry Hart, he certainly is an odd one. He finds himself curiously drawn to him, wanting to look inside and see what makes him tick, like one of his machines. "Why butterflies, if I may ask?"

 

Harry purses his lips. "I had aspirations to be a lepidopterist some years ago. It was either that or the military. I chose to enlist and so here I am today. Though, I still enjoy pursuing lepidoptery as a hobby."

 

"Yes, but _why_ butterflies?" Callum presses.

 

If Harry thinks him out of line, he never says so. Instead he looks out across the garden, the slight breeze passing through his hair like airy fingers lending him an almost ethereal beauty that would put him at home among the marble sculptures of Rome. There's a soft, thoughtful look upon his face, almost as though no one has ever pushed him for more of an answer.

 

"They're beautiful - and fleeting. Most live several weeks at most," Harry tells him. "I find them fascinating. When they enter a state of chrysalis, they become little more than a puddle of biological material. No central nervous system, nothing to say that any part of what they are remains when they emerge. Yet they emerge somehow knowing precisely what they are meant to do and where they are meant to be. Butterflies in North America were found to suddenly detour to the east in their southern migration over one of the Great Lakes only to resume flying south simply because there _used_ to be a mountain there thousands of years ago."

 

He looks at peace, Callum thinks, talking about his butterflies. It's a look that suits him, his features relaxed and easy. 

 

"For all that apparent instinct, that apparent genetic knowledge, they're here and gone in an instant," Harry goes on to say. "I can't help but be awed by them."

 

"I think you would've made a fine lepidopterist," Callum tells him, looking out across the garden with him, watching the butterflies flitting about in the distance. "It's a shame you didn't choose that path."

 

He hears Harry laugh. "Well, perhaps in another life. Now, much as I hate to cut this short, I suppose I should actually get around to shoosing my proposal. Though, after meeting you, I almost don't wish to choose one at all."

 

Callum feels heat rise to his face and is thankful for the bag of ice to hide that fact. Harry raises Callum's spectacles in his hand, apparently having retrieved them from the ground, displaying the shattered lense.

 

"I'll submit these to Merlin on my way out. He should have them back to you in short fashion," Harry declares. "Very sorry once again for the trouble."

 

Callum huffs a quick laugh. "Given the pleasant conversation, I'm tempted to say it was hardly any trouble at all."

 

Harry's smile broadens as he holds his hand out once more. "I look forward to seeing how you progress, Mr. Craig."

 

Callum shakes his hand firmly. "Thank you, sir."

 

He watches as Harry takes his leave, strolling easily across the grounds as though he hasn't a care in the world. When he's at last out of sight, the young Scotsman sinks to the bench once more with a heavy sigh, only to have Harry's butterfly land upon his knee. Shaking his head with a soft smile, he has to wonder just what he's getting himself into.


	6. yours, faithfully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Cause even when I dream of you  
> The sweetest dream will never do  
> I'd still miss you baby  
> And I don't want to miss a thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of percilot smut  
> fluffy smut but smut all the same lol

"Martin, what exactly are you saying?" James asks, folding his newspaper and placing it aside.

 

Martin's back is to him as he tends to his cacti, his movements deliberate and delicate. "Precisely what it sounds like. You are the only person I have ever been with."

 

James frowns at the cavalier response. "But then that would mean... that night we were together in Cambridge... you were a virgin?"

 

"I don't see that there's anything all that shocking about it," Martin tells him, finally setting his collection aside and untying the apron around his waist.

 

"Of course it's shocking," James corrects him, feeling flabbergasted with this revelation. "My god, Martin, you never even told me!"

 

Now Martin is starting to look uncomfortable, as though just realizing he's stepped into a conversation he doesn't want to have. "It wasn't important."

 

"But it _was_. It _is,_ " James insists, rising from his chair. "If I'd known, I would've - "

 

"Never stepped within ten feet of me," Martin finishes for him. He folds the apron end over end, refusing to meet James's eyes. "James, must we continue to talk about this?"

 

"Wait a moment. Do you really think I wouldn't have approached you if I knew?" James asks him, touching a hand to his partner's arm. Martin says nothing and that, in itself, is all the answer James needs. He laughs incredulously, framing Martin's face with his hands. "Lord, Martin, no! No, that's not what I meant at all. I just wish I'd known. I would've treated it more seriously, made it something more special."

 

"It already was," Martin says matter-of-factly.

 

Again, Martin freezes as James's eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline. Things which seem obvious and rational to Martin often carry a deeper emotional meaning to others and this is something he has difficulty picking up on. Inadvertently stepping into these situations tends to leave him out of sorts, unsure of himself and how to proceed without wandering further into territory where he's ill-equipped. With a sigh, James reels him into his embrace, thankful that Martin doesn't resist the motion.

 

"You've no reason to be ashamed of that," James tells him. "And it was special to me as well. I merely meant... well, I would've done things differently. Treated you more gently. I... Christ, I can't believe I took your virginity and I'm only finding out now."

 

"Thought you'd have something to say about all that," Martin mumbles into his shoulder.

 

James likes to tease, to wheedle until he can get a rise out of his partner. And so his assumption is a fair one. Typically this is the sort of information that would make James feel like the cat who ate the canary. He'd be wearing a smile smug enough to slap off his face. This time though... James couldn't find it in himself to do it. Something about knowing he'd been able to move Martin so deeply left him feeling as though he were holding something unbelievably precious in his hands. 

 

But to say he had nothing to say on the matter? His hands shift on Martin's body, one sliding up to the base of his neck, the other lower to the small of his back. He turns his face inward nuzzling his partner's cheek until his lips are at Martin's ear.

 

"Martin," he says softly. "Let me make love to you."

 

He feels Martin stop breathing. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for... well, James isn't sure. Slowly he exhales and breathes, but it's quicker than before. He feels Martin's hands at his back, fists clenched in the fabric of his shirt with the same want and desperation with which he had gripped the bedsheets beneath them on that singular night so many years ago.

 

"Please."

 

There's a needy lilt to the word that gives him half a mind to toss Martin over his shoulder and make for the nearest horizontal surface. But that's not the gentlemanly way to go about this. He _will_ , however, be kissing the man in his arms every step of the way from here to their bed.

 

Which is precisely what he does.

 

Every time with Martin feels like the first time. However they may behave in the open, when they take to bed, Martin always gazes at him with an unfiltered adoration that steals his breath every time. So often Martin finds himself incapable of putting feelings to words, of expressing what he feels. But here and now, his eyes tell James everything. He reaches up, pulling Martin's glasses from his face and folding them before carefully placing them on the nightstand. They undress one another, taking their time, and James has to push away his giddiness at the realization that this will be the first time they've laid together since he'd returned.

 

He guides Martin back onto the bed, kneeling over him as they discard any remaining articles of clothing. Martin gazes up at him, his cheeks a healthy pink, pupils set large and round within his dark eyes. There is always a certain shyness about him, something sweet and boyish which is so far removed from his serious nature that James can't help but be addicted to it.

 

First and only.

 

James had been his first and only.

 

It still leaves him dizzy just thinking about it. Martin had seemed so embarrassed, as though there was some shame to be had in the admission. But if there were, James certainly couldn't find it. As always, Martin's eyes travel to the scar down his middle, his hand reaching out to gently trace the line in its entirety. James had been afraid Martin would come to look at it with guilt and regret, but this wasn't the case. 

 

The first time Martin had seen the scar running from James's sternum to his navel, he had scared the life out of James when he had wept. Not out of sadness, as James had assumed, but out of joy. He'd told James that scar was proof that James was there with him. They had been separated by that thin line of scar tissue and everything that came with it, but James had come home. Instead of associating it with all the negative connotations that he could have, he chose to see it as something good. Something positive. The dead don't have scars, he'd said, but the living do.

 

"You said I was your first and only," James says, drawing his attention. "But I'd like to be your last as well."

 

"You are. You always were," Martin tells him.

 

His voice tells James that the statement had perplexed Martin - perhaps he had always seen it as a forgone conclusion. But when James's face lights up, Martin knows he's faulted twice in one sitting. Something logical and obvious to him is seemingly profound and wondrous to James and he just doesn't know why. Here again comes that shyness, moreso from unintentionally laying his heart bare than his body, as he turns his face away. James reaches out, tracing his partner's jawline with the backs of his knuckles.

 

"Darling," James says softly. "Martin, darling, look at me."

 

Martin complies, though his eyes still hold that reservation, as though he's gone too far in his admission, crossed some line that wasn't meant to be crossed. James leans in to relieve him of that notion, pressing his lips to Martin's, to his cheek, his forehead, his nose.

 

"You are everything I could ever want," James tells him. "You're more than. The fact that you had that all figured out long before I did is nothing to find shameful. I want you to be my last, too. You understand? You may not have been my first or my only, but never doubt that you are more precious to me than life itself."

 

Though still outwardly reserved, Martin looks back at him with such an abundance of love that James feels his chest is fit to burst with it. Martin reaches up, his hand curling around the back of James's head as he drags him down for a kiss. He opens his mouth, inviting James in, and the former Lancelot wastes little time in accepting the invitation. It's slow and sweet, and perhaps one of the things he had missed most about his partner; the way he seems to give himself to James entirely without reservation. After their earlier discussion, it suddenly makes so much more sense to him. Martin had never been with anyone else because he'd never _wanted_  to be. All he'd ever seen for himself was James and rather than feel smug, James can't help but feel profoundly undeserving of such a thing. But he wouldn't give it up for the life of him. Their kiss makes the slow progression from tender to heated as James dips his head to bite and kiss his partner's jaw and throat. Before long, however, they're no longer content to merely kiss.

 

It should be noted that James takes a certain satisfaction in prepping his partners, but never more so than with Martin. Quiet by nature, he had always endeavored to remain so - even in the bedroom. Although time and trust has done a great deal to relieve him if that need, there is always a certain amount of warming up required to get him there. But James is patient, letting him smother all his vocalizations behind tightly sealed lips or a hand over his mouth. James remains gentle but persistent, taking his time to ensure his partner is good and ready before anything more. By the time he's four fingers deep inside him, Martin is squirming against him, biting down on his bottom lip so hard that James is afraid for a moment that he might draw blood. Inevitably, however, hard work pays off. James curls his fingers at just the right angle with just enough pressure and he's rewarded with Martin pressing into him, his head tipped back against the sheets as a strangled, breathy moan emerges past his lips. If you ask James, there's no sweeter sound to be had. He proceeds with his ministrations, if only to wring a few more gorgeous moans out of him, though by this time he himself is so aroused he doesn't dally much longer.

 

"Wait. Let me," Martin pants as James withdraws his fingers.

 

Intrigued, James allows himself to be gently guided until their positions are reversed. James rests back against the bed as Martin kneels above him, reaching behind him to guide James's cock inside him. Brow knit in concentration, he slowly lowers himself down with a breathy exhalation, inch by inch. James takes in the healthy blush on his cheeks, his hair falling out of its neat hold after James had run his hands through it. It's a sight he hasn't seen in - quite literally - years. Intimacy had been difficult to navigate in a relationship they had to keep secret. All this meant that the last time had been months before the chalet and oh how he's ached for the intimacy of this moment.

 

Martin exhales in a long, shaky sigh as he bottoms out and sits in James's lap - and good _god_ this man will be the death of him, James thinks. Martin settles there, breathing deeply as he allows himself a moment to adjust. James doesn't dare do so much as breathe, afraid of ruining the moment as he watches his partner and waits for him to take the lead.

 

Keeping his head bowed and his eyes closed, Martin shifts his hips experimentally, almost as though focusing intently on getting everything right. Knowing what he knows now, James wonders if that wasn't _exactly_ what Martin had been doing during their after hours encounter back at Cambridge. Regardless, he always seems to know precisely what to do to pleasure James... but not himself at the same time. When he's focused on James, he's focused on James entirely; so focused that he's seemingly incapable of including his own needs into the equation. Something which James has never particularly been fond of but which suddenly makes a great deal more sense.

 

It's a peculiarity James has always wondered about, but never pressed him to explain. As it is, he happens to enjoy reminding Sir Percival that this is a two man show and leaving his needs unattended won't do. Presently, however, he does little more than roll his hips up to meet his partner on the downward thrust; just enough to coax a surprised gasp or two out of him. The view is far too perfect for him to dream of interrupting otherwise.

 

James's hands have travelled their way up Martin's thighs, coming to rest on his hips. Martin had quickly placed his hands over James's, as though to try in some way to keep him right where he is. His breathing has steadily picked up as he grinds against his partner, watching him now from beneath heavy eyelids, dark brown eyes looking impossibly black with desire. James has never been good at passive roles - not unless leather and safe words were involved, anyway - and so as he watches the blush creeping up Martin's chest, his cock dripping precum onto James's stomach, it's a struggle not to take over.

 

He knows Martin is doing this for more than one reason. Primarily because James still hasn't fully recovered from his time spent at Gazelle's tender mercies. Easing the strain on James himself while still allowing them to lie together had been the idea, but as the minutes pass, James finds he can't hold himself back any longer.

 

The surprise is written clearly in Martin's face as James rolls them, pinning his partner beneath him. 

 

"James, stop!" 

 

Surprise has been replaced by concern, with a healthy dash of fear on top. For a moment James feels guilty; Martin has hovered over him since his return, almost manic with worry as James slowly continues to heal. He knows Martin's afraid he'll hurt himself, that he'll strain himself in some way. And James knows precisely who Martin will blame if that should happen.

 

"Calm yourself, darling," James instructs him. "I'm alright."

 

"You shouldn't," Martin replies, lifting himself to his elbows. "Please. Let me take care of you."

 

"Martin," James murmurs, cupping his cheek. "It's alright. I promise you. I won't do anything beyond my means."

 

Martin wears a look of hesitation, caught between his partner's desires and his own anxieties. It's clear to James he wants this every bit as much as James does. It's been so long since they'd had the pleasure of each other's company in this manner and it's something neither of them thought would ever occur again. This is about more than just sex. James had been taken from the man he loves and had been beaten and tortured for months on end. How many times had he contemplated ending it all in that little cell? How many times had he very nearly done so? But he couldn't. Not when he was alive and that meant even the slightest chance of seeing Martin again. 

 

He would never forget the look on Martin's face when he opened the door to that cell. James himself had been convinced it was another hallucination - one he'd had many times before - but when he saw the strength leave Martin's legs and he came crashing down on his knees, tears wordlessly pouring down his face, somehow James knew it was no illusion. Martin had held him tight enough to break bone. He had apologized. Over and over as though he were somehow to blame. Knowing the depth of Martin's love for him is something James treasures more than anything, but seeing him blame himself for what had happened to James makes his heart ache. He wants this for them. Both of them. He's not the only one who needs to heal from this.

 

"I've wanted this for so long. Dreamed of it. And I was sure I would never get the chance again," James tells him. He can hear his own heartbeat echoing in his eardrums. "I need you."

 

Martin studies him for a long moment before wrapping his arms around his partner's shoulders. "You have me."

 

James kisses him; desperately, hungrily, his hands lifting Martin's legs by the backs of his knees as he buries himself inside his partner with one sure thrust. Martin arches up against him, his moan rumbling against James's lips. This. This is what he'd needed. Slowly rocking his hips into Martin, Martin pushing back against him, both of them moving together. Physical therapy be damned, this is more important. He can live with overdoing it a little if it means he's with Martin. Although... no. He'd promised. He won't break his promise.

 

Instead he thinks back on what he'd said: let me make love to you. 

 

He can't take them back in time to that night in Cambridge so long ago, but tonight is a sort of first in and of itself, in a way. While it's true the concept of virginity is something James typically finds to be archaic and terribly sexist, he still thinks one's first should be something special. It should be treated that way by your partner. He'd never had the chance with Martin. If he still had the stamina of a twenty-year-old he'd be showing Martin _exactly_  what he would've done that night - several times over. But just this, right here and now, he finds he almost prefers it.

 

James moves his face lower, nuzzling his partner's jawline and prompting Martin to bare his neck to him. The former Lancelot drags his teeth along his fellow knight's exposed throat, nipping as he pleases until he stops with his lips against the other man's pulse point. He feels Martin shiver as he licks a wide stripe across bare flesh before latching on and sucking a deep welt into his skin. One of Martin's hands in in his hair, alternating between petting and lightly dragging his nails across James's scalp, and the sensation is absolutely magical.

 

"Do you remember that night?" James asks him. "You were gorgeous, you know. But I think... I think you may be even more so with a bit of grey."

 

He feels as much as he hears the huff of laughter the statement earns him. "Don't tease."

 

It was one of the differences he'd noticed straight away when he'd returned; the first few streaks of grey in his lover's dark hair. He couldn't help but wonder if he was responsible for their arrival.

 

"I wouldn't dream of it, darling," James says, the amusement clear in his voice.

 

He abandons his grip on is partner's knees, finding that at some point, Martin had locked is legs around James's waist. With his hands now free, James slips one between them, his fingers skimming across his partner's cock. Martin presses against him with a choked off whimper - and that's exactly what James had been looking for. 

 

"Beautiful," James purrs, leaning in to kiss him deeply.

 

He takes Martin in hand, smearing precum across his palm as he slowly pumps his cock in time with the motion of his hips. Martin moves with him, shifting his hips to meet each of James's thrusts and rutting into the slick channel of his closed fist. James never alternates his his speed, just keeps the same slow, even pace all the while. 

 

Martin is a wreck.

 

He can't seem to tell if he wants James to move faster or slower or to change nothing at all. He's clinging to his partner desperately, arms and legs locked around him like he's afraid to let go. Maybe he is, James thinks. All the more reason to take their time. James can only think of how perfect this is. How perfect Martin sounds. Breathy moans, soft whimpers, groaning, begging... all for him and him alone. James murmurs soft, encouraging things as he thumbs the head of Martin's cock, which only serves to unravel him even further.

 

"Please," Martin murmurs into his shoulder.

 

"Tell me what you need," James says, nuzzling the side of his face.

 

He's never seen Martin quite like this. Of course he's always quite loosened up when they have sex, but tonight he seems to be completely falling apart. Somehow, James knows that isn't a bad thing.

 

"I need you to stay," Martin answers him, panting. "I just need you."

 

"I'm here," James says breathily, his face pressed to the side of his partner's. "I'm not going anywhere."

 

Even for their more tender love making, this has reached a point James isn't sure they've ever been to before. It's almost frightening. Martin pants, open-mouthed, muscles twitching around James as he tries to hold out for as long as possible, but James knows he's reached his limit.

 

"James... I can't..."

 

Right there. He's right there. James peppers his jaw with soft kisses, steadily driving Martin closer to completion. The muscles in the younger Knight's thighs quiver as he teeters on the edge of release, trying to stave off the inevitable, trying to make it last. James thinks they've both waited long enough.

 

"Go on, darling. Come for me. Let me feel you."

 

James rolls his hips once, twice, three times. And there it is. Martin comes with a broken sob, shaking from head to toe as it rolls through him and clinging to James as though needing to do so in order to ground himself. James inhales sharply at the added sensation of muscles clamping down on him so, so tight. He won't last. But that's perfect. Right now is perfect. He rocks into his partner, chasing his own release as he draws his lover's out.

 

"Oh... Oh, Martin... just like that..."

 

He's coming, cock pulsing inside his partner, pumping his seed into the deepest, most intimate places of his lover's body; places only he's been to. He holds himself there, feeling his climax rippling through him, feeling Martin, feeling both of them.

 

_"James."_

 

Martin gasps his name as he feels James come inside him, as though that's what he's been waiting for all along. James kisses him, slow and wet as they embrace, lazily rocking into one another. It's all so much better than he'd even expected it to be, this singular moment where the world is condensed to just the two of them. They gradually ride their release to completion, shaking and exhausted as they collapse against the bed in a sated heap. They don't move an inch even after they know they should. James is practically lying on top of Martin and he should probably move and give him some relief, but...

 

Martin's fingers are running through his hair, his touch impossibly gentle as he presses kiss after kiss to James's temple. James relaxes into it, sleepy and content, feeling absolutely boneless. He could sleep just like this. Just with Martin's arms around him, warm and happy. But there's something wet on the side of his face.

 

"I love you, James," he hears Martin whisper to him, his voice shaky and waterlogged. "God, I love you so much I think it may kill me. Please don't ever do that again. Don't leave."

 

James can't be still any longer. He rises up on his elbows, looking into Martin's tear-stained face, unsurprised that his partner's eyes are squeezed shut as though to block out the feelings bombarding him. James's heart is near-bursting with those words that are _so hard_  for Martin to say... How could he not be moved? How could he not give everything of himself to this beautiful man who's given him ten times more? He reaches out, cupping his partner's face, in awe - once again - that he's lived to see the day where he could do this again.

 

"I love you, too, Martin," James answers. He presses his forehead against Martin's, just listening to him breathe for a moment. "I love you, I love you, to the moon and back, I love you."

 

They stay like that for a long while, just breathing together, just touching. Martin has been patient with him, supportive and tirelessly devoted as James has struggled through his recovery. He's lost count of the times he's woken from a nightmare, shaking and drenched in sweat, only for Martin to hold him in his arms and soothe away the terror the nightmares impart upon him. There were days when Martin somehow knew he just couldn't get out of bed and days when Martin knew he had to be pushed to do so. He never once loses patience when James breaks down or when he lashes out or when he locks himself away in his room for hours on end.

 

Now James has in front of him one of those rare moments when Martin shows him his hand and it's just a raw ache. An exposed nerve. A wound which is jagged and open and bleeding before his very eyes. 

 

"I'm sorry," Martin says with a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't have - "

 

"No. Please don't apologize, not for this," James cuts him off. "Never for this."

 

"I just... When we lost you, Harry came to me. I thought it was you coming home early. But he'd come to tell me. Merlin didn't want me to find out from a meeting so Harry came to tell me... to tell me..." Martin's words are strangled, as though he can't bear to remember. His breaths are deep and fast and James knows he's wrestling with what he feels. "I never knew it could hurt to just... _be_. To just exist. But it did. Everyone told me things would get better with time and yet every moment hurt more than the one that came before it. And I... I can't exist without you. Not again. I can't do it James, I'm not strong enough."

 

But Martin is the strongest person he knows, James thinks. To have shouldered all of this and James's suffering on top of it, to day in and day out do everything he can to watch over Merlin, knowing all too well what he's going through... Martin thinks so little of his capacity for emotion, yet James would argue he has a bigger heart than nearly any of them. If he's wired a little differently than the rest of them, it's nothing James would hold against him.

 

"Martin," James says quietly. "I can't promise to never leave you any more than you can promise not to leave me. But what I _can_ promise is that no matter what, I will always fight to my last to come home to you. Because I can't do this without you, either. After all the years I chased you, praying you would look my way again, do you think I would ever in a million years be able to go on without you? I wouldn't. Because you are the only person in this world I can call home."

 

Martin gazes back at him, his eyes looking at each feature in turn as though to memorize them, before he buries his fingers in James's hair.

 

"Then I'm glad you're home," he whispers, pulling him close once more.

 

They resume their embrace, counting heartbeats and breaths and soaking in the feeling of bare skin on bare skin. How long they stay this way, James can't say. But at some point, cleaning themselves up does become a necessity and he watches Martin retreat to the bathroom on shaky legs. A couple damp flannels are all that's needed as they clean each other up before collapsing back onto the bed, too tired to bother with a proper shower. Martin's head rests on James's chest, his hand resting over the scar from the wound that nearly took him away for good.

 

"James?"

 

"Mm?"

 

"It was special. Even if you didn't think it was. To me..."

 

He can't seem to get the words out. But he's already said everything James needs to know. James rolls onto his side, tucking Martin close and whispering soft, loving things until sleep comes for them both.

 

 

* * *

 

James wakes with a start.

 

He's not in his bedroom. He's not lying in his bed with Martin. He raises his head, sitting up with a groan at the pain in his neck and back, and blinks the sleep out of his eyes.

 

That's right.

 

They're in America. In Kentucky, the guests of their sister organization, the Statesman. And he's in the infirmary with Martin.

 

He takes in Martin's still form in the bed before him, pale and cool to the touch; plied with tubes and wires, machines breathing for him. His hand rests in James's, but he hasn't so much as twitched a finger. Nothing at all despite weeks of assurances that he's getting better every day. James has spent so much time in this room they'd set up a bed for him. Although, it seems he'd fallen asleep at his post in the chair beside the bed, which explains why he hurts so much. But that dream...

 

James had simply been... remembering. 

 

"You said you couldn't exist without me," James murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. "But don't you remember that I told you the same?"

 

Martin doesn't answer, of course. Not that James had been expecting him to. Sometimes he wonders if he's sitting here waiting for something that will never come. Martin had been face down in the Thames for ten minutes. Depriving his brain of oxygen for that long means the risk of brain damage is high. Not just high, practically inevitable. 

 

Morgana had been kind when she explained, but she hadn't sugar coated it. It was rare to see someone recover from that state. However, most people didn't have the benefit of the Statesman developed nanites to aid in recovery. That's what makes it such a guessing game. There's only so much the nanites can accomplish and they're likely overwhelmed by the extensive amount of damage they're expected to repair. 

 

It makes James wonder what Martin would want. If they knew he wasn't waking up, what would he want? He doesn't want to have to consider it, but given the situation, he has to at some point or later.

 

"I can wait," James tells him, his thumb brushing Martin's knuckles. "As long as it takes. All I ask is that you give me a sign that you can hear my voice, that you're still in there."

 

He doesn't know why he holds his breath as though he's expecting something. This isn't a movie. Martin won't wake just because he's said a few pretty words. The solution isn't as simple as true love's first kiss. It's patience and science and more than a little luck, none of which are dictated by the fanciful things which James likes to believe they are. Loved ones do not wake simply for the fact that you love them. They don't heal simply because you've prayed as hard as you can.

 

Despite knowing this, it doesn't stop him. He prays to a god he barely believes in, bargaining, begging, whatever it takes. He'll cross his fingers and utter "rabbit, rabbit" when he wakes. He doesn't think there's anything he wouldn't do if he thought it might allow him to see Martin open his eyes.

 

He bows his head, holding Martin's hand between both his own and pressing his lips to the Knight's knuckles.

 

"I can wait."

 

 


	7. hearts like ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was I out of my head or was I out of my mind?  
> How could I have ever been so blind?  
> I was waiting for an indication, it was hard to find  
> Don't matter what I say, only what I do  
> I never mean to do bad things to you  
> So quiet but I finally woke up  
> If you're sad then it's time you spoke up too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a throwback to both lywinis's piece [matrimony](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3812251/chapters/8813347) from [i've lost my heart to a man with a smoking gun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3812251) as well as [white feather](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3830767/chapters/9216265) by me. you will definitely want to read those first or a lot of what's here won't make sense lol. and as always, if you're not reading it already, go check out:
> 
> [photographs and memories](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12165312) as well as [bon dia!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12280920) by lywinis

**[ANTALYA, TURKEY: 1998]**

Martin sighs as James leans forward, hands braced against the wall and head hanging between his shoulders. Thankfully the hallway is deserted at this time of the night, so at the very least there's that.

"Brandy is not meant to be quaffed," James moans.

"No one said you had to finish it right then and there in order for us to take our leave, James," Martin reminds him. "You could have brought it with you."

"... think'm gonna be sick..."

Just as Martin is about to suggest a toilet may be a better place for that than the hotel's hallway, the sound of a door opening and closing catches his attention. The door isn't slammed but it certainly is closed with more force than necessary. Looking up, he sees Harry Hart stalking down the hall with a particularly dark look on his face. He brushes past them as though he hadn't even seen them and Martin turns to follow him with his gaze.

"Galahad?" he calls after him.

"I'll be downstairs at the bar if I'm needed," Harry says evenly. "Though I trust I won't be."

Watching Harry board the elevator, Martin understands the unspoken message of 'leave me alone' loud and clear. James lifts his head, staring after the older knight.

"That's hardly a good sign," James murmurs, swallowing a nauseated burp.

Martin nods quietly in agreement, wondering just what had been said in that room when he and James had taken their leave. Not a moment later, he hears the soft click of a door opening and finds Merlin leaning out of his room and into the hallway, frowning as he stares down the corridor after Harry.

"Alright Merlin?"

Merlin is slow to acknowledge him. "Galahad pass you on his way out?"

"He did," Martin answers. "He stated he would be at the bar."

"And that he didn't wish to be bothered, I take it?" Merlin adds.

"In as many words," James tells him.

He opens his mouth to add some kind of supplementary statement, only to apparently think better of it as he hurriedly keys into his room. Martin waits all of five seconds before the sound of retching reaches his ears. He rolls his eyes heavenward, wondering what on Earth he'd done to be blessed with the presence of one James Spencer. Merlin shakes his head and chuckles softly, though his smile fails to reach his eyes.

"You'd best go look after him," Merlin advises him.

For a moment, Martin feels as though he should stop Merlin from excusing himself. Perhaps he ought to say something more, he thinks, but for the life of him he can't think of what that should be. Failing to come up with a reason to hold him, Martin merely nods.

"I suppose I must," he answers. "Goodnight, Merlin."

"Goodnight, Percival."

 

* * *

 

Merlin lies on his back in the darkened room, staring up at the ceiling as a cool sea breeze wafts in through the open window. His hands are folded over his stomach, a small, velvet box clutched between them. His thumbs trace the corners as he replays, again and again, the events which took place in his room some four hours prior.

Harry had been serious.

Harry had proposed to him, not as just a means of diversion, but because he well and truly meant to.

And he had essentially treated him to a slap in the face. But for God's sake, how was he meant to know? Had Harry assumed that Merlin would know him well enough by now? Had that been it? Regardless, he'd sprung it upon him in the middle of a crucial moment in their assignment. Of course he'd thought the box was empty! Harry was infamous for always having one more trick up his sleeve - Merlin thought it only reasonable that he'd assumed this to be one of them.

Still... he hasn't opened the box. He can't bring himself to do so. Opening it, confirming for himself that it isn't empty... He can't. Not now. That would make it all far too real. The sad truth of the matter is that, proposal or no, a marriage is not something in the cards for them. It can't be, so long as they remain employed as Kingsman. They'd agreed on that. Or so he'd thought.

"Harry, what on Earth has gotten into you?" Merlin sighs, closing his eyes.

It's not as though he'd ever say no to Harry. Not even if the proposed marriage were to never occur. If Harry asked, Merlin would answer 'yes.' A thousand times over, if necessary. He just wishes he'd been able to see it for what it was when Harry had bent down on one knee before him in the restaurant.

The image of Harry's face screwed up in disappointment and anger resurfaces, tying his stomach in knots. He doesn't want to let this sit between them undiscussed. He doesn't want another Rhodes. Not after they'd finally come back together. The idea of driving Harry away because of this claws at his chest from the inside until he can think of nothing else than going downstairs to the bar right this second.

Bolting up, he quickly puts his shoes on and grabs his spectacles before all but darting out of the room. His journey to the elevator is that of a man in a hurry who is carefully constraining himself to a brisk walk. The elevator now seems to move painfully slow, almost as though the universe has read his intentions and is purposely acting against him.

At last the doors slide open with a gentle chime as he reaches the ground floor and he wastes no time in making a beeline to the hotel bar. The moment it's within his sight, however, he can see Harry isn't there. He still continues walking forward despite the disappointed weight that's settled in his stomach. Now that he's standing before the bar, he can confirm that Harry is nowhere near the area.

"Excuse me," Merlin says, hailing the bartender. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. Ah, English, brown hair - "

"Yes, I know him," the bartender says in a thick accent, her face lighting up. "Very handsome. But so unhappy! Maybe he is happier now."

"Why do you say that?" Merlin asks, feeling that he won't like the answer.

"He left with a very pretty woman. Important, I think," the bartender says, nodding to herself as she continues to polish glasses. "She has four big, big men in suits with her, you see. Like they are bodyguards."

Merlin feels a spike of dread shoot up his spine. Harry wasn't one to sleep with someone else out of spite and if he meant to leave, he would have informed them he was doing so. Until they returned home, they were still technically on assignment, which meant their movements always had to be accounted for. The fact that Harry hadn't checked in... Merlin has the feeling Galahad hadn't left with this woman voluntarily. While searching his brain for who it could possibly be, he remembers just why they'd needed a diversion in the first place.

Natalia Yusupova.

The daughter of a minor nobleman in Russia, she had been a mark on Percival's assignment in the former USSR this past year. While she herself was not especially formidable, the people in her employ certainly were. Russian SAS were some of the more common hires, but if your grunts are special forces, it can only get worse as you move up the chain of command. Needless to say, it had been a very trying mission; one which had placed all four of the Kingsman involved in the infirmary on their return - including Lancelot and Percival.

If this woman has Harry...

Merlin barely remembers to thank the bartender before he bolts back towards the elevators.

 

* * *

 

There's a knock on the door.

In an instant Martin is awake, the sound bringing him to full alertness from where he'd fallen asleep in the hotel room's chair. His hand slides to the Tokarev in his shoulder holster, even as he sees James pulling his own from beneath his pillow, his hair sticking up on one side lending a ridiculous air to his movements. Martin moves for the door, not bothering to try the peephole - the former Percival got a bullet through his eye for making that mistake. Instead, he presses himself to the wall, firearm at the ready as he calls out.

"Can I help you?"

_"It's me, Percival."_

James exhales audibly at the sound of Merlin's voice, but Martin isn't satisfied.

"Did you get the tea?" he asks.

_"English breakfast, milk, no sugar."_

It's a system that's been in play since long before Martin had been recruited. Just because the voice at your door was a friendly one, didn't necessarily mean you were safe. Asking if another Kingsman had got the tea was a coded way of asking if their guest was alone. No sugar meant they were. Numbering the teaspoons of sugar numbered the people with them. Milk if they were friendly, black if they were not. Merlin's answer is enough to convince Martin that he's alone, but he keeps his finger by the trigger all the same as he unlocks the door.

"Merlin, what's - "

"Galahad's been abducted," Merlin interrupts, barely waiting for Martin to pull the door open all the way.

"He _what_?" James asks, running a hand through his hair as he sits on the bed. "By who?"

"Natalia Yusupova," Merlin says darkly.

Martin tenses at the name, aware that even James's sunny disposition darkens noticeably. It's not a name associated with particularly happy memories. There are two round scars in James's left shoulder and one jagged line just above Martin's right hip with her name on them. Seeing her at the restaurant earlier in the day had convinced him that their mission was blown. It would have been, had it not been for Harry's quick thinking, but now he sees it was foolish of them to assume they'd escaped unnoticed. If this woman has Harry, Merlin has every right to be as anxious as Martin knows him to be.

"Fuck," James sighs. "Thought we'd given her the slip."

"As did I," Merlin admits. "Clearly she knows our spectacles are capable of being traced, since it seems she must've had Galahad's destroyed not long after they took him. However, they were left active long enough to at least give us a heading."

"Given that, do you have any idea where their destination is?" Martin asks.

Merlin rubs his hands together, his tongue pressing to the corner of his lips. "I think so, yes."

For Merlin to be so visibly anxious... It doesn't sit well with Martin. Not one bit.

"Alright," Martin says decisively. "We'll head back to the plane and retrieve the tactical gear. Lancelot and I will - "

"I'm going with you," Merlin declares.

James rises from his seat on the bed, approaching the tech wizard. "Merlin, I understand how you feel, but you can't."

"This isn't a discussion, Lancelot. I've said I'm going and that's final," Merlin says firmly.

James looks to Martin a bit helplessly. Technically, the two of them are considered to be Merlin's superiors. If they give an order, Merlin must follow it. It isn't without reason that James has told Merlin he can't join them. During Martin's first assignment, he'd been in the field with Merlin, who had the unfortunate luck of being shot. But the truly damning part of it was that Merlin hadn't felt a thing. He'd very nearly bled out and when they'd returned to base, Morgana had rendered her diagnosis: peripheral neuropathy/ An agent who could potentially not feel something like a bullet wound was too much of a liability and so Arthur had retired Merlin from the field, ordering him housebound and increasing his duties tenfold.

Martin could order Merlin to remain here. In many ways, it would be the right thing to do. But he'd never felt comfortable with the idea of ordering around a man who had trained both himself and James, who had been a guiding hand and an invaluable friend to them both. After considering the idea briefly, he voices his decision.

"Alright," he says simply.

" _Martin_!" James blurts, surprise making him drop their codenames "What if he gets hurt? You can't possibly be that irresponsible, he could _die_."

"We don't have the luxury of leaving him behind," Martin declares. "We need all the manpower we have at our disposal if we're going to perform this extraction with any chance of success."

"But... But Merlin, you can't," James says in frustration, looking to the tech wizard with obvious concern.

Merlin's gaze softens somewhat. James is undoubtedly the heart of the group - and the least ashamed of showing it. It's not surprising he's uncomfortable with the idea of letting Merlin walk into what is essentially an excuse to get himself killed. Merlin thumps him on the back reassuringly, though James looks anything but reassured.

"Thank you, James. But I'll be alright," Merlin says. His lips pull into a lopsided grin. "It'll take a lot more to kill this old goat, eh?"

James looks anything but happy with this turn of events, but he doesn't offer any further protest to Merlin joining them. The three of them quickly compose themselves before making their way out of the hotel and to the plane. For most of their assignments, the bespoke is more than enough in terms of protection. However, some cases require a bit more. The all black tactical gear is rarely put into play but something they're all familiar with. It doesn't take long for the three of them to get changed and outfitted with whatever supplies they deem necessary before Merlin is outlining a route for them on a map.

"A chateau on the cliffs overlooking the ocean," James deadpans. "Originality is dead."

"Unfortunately past experience tells us the rest won't be quite so textbook," Merlin says, nodding at the two of them in turn. "As you well know."

"No, but it should still be more straightforward than navigating a fifteenth-century Russian fortress," Martin reasons.

"I suppose there is that," James mumbles. "Alright, taking the boat in, then?"

They figure out their plan of attack fairly quickly and get moving towards the docks. Keeping Merlin between himself and James as they pull out into the open ocean, Martin has to wonder if he's made the right choice.

 

* * *

 

Harry Hart has had better days. He's had worse, too, but this is not how he'd thought he would be spending his evening. Tensing in preparation for the next blow, he thinks he may as well be just sitting back and taking it for all the good his preparation does him. He catches a meaty fist in his ribs, feeling it return again and again and again in rapid succession.

Something inside him breaks, he's sure. Pain steals his breath and leaves him choking on his own blood. These men seem perfectly content to lay into him as though they're tenderizing a slab of meat, all while their mistress watches. She sits some fifteen feet in front of him, legs crossed primly at the knee and a glass of wine held in her hand. Watching him struggle to defend himself, she sips from the glass, dying her lips blood red as her blue eyes glint like ice chips set within her pale face.

Natalia Yusupova.

The woman takes particular delight in violence and suffering; seeing the state Lancelot and Percival had been in post-mission last year had only cemented that fact for him. Lancelot had hardly been on more than one or two assignments as a Kingsman before he found himself suddenly dealing with a woman even their most seasoned agents would find difficult to handle. She was known to have her men pick up people from the street, forcing them to fight to the death for her pleasure. Not that this was common knowledge, but they didn't work in the business of common knowledge.

A harshly barked command sees the end of his beating - for the time being. Harry struggles to catch his breath, his torso alight with white hot pain that begs his lungs not to draw the breath he desperately needs. A pair of immaculately polished red heels enters his line of sight before he feels a hand grabbing a fistful of his hair. Yusupova yanks his head back, forcing him to look her in the face with the one eye that isn't swollen shut.

"You know, I think you may be even prettier now," she purrs, gazing down at him cruelly. "Red is a very good color on you."

Harry hears the sound of breaking glass before she raises the shattered remains of her wine glass for him to see. Once she's sure he's observed the jagged edges, it disappears from his sight... but not from his awareness. He goes still as he feels a sharp piece of glass pressed just below his jawline.

"I think you could use a little more, yes?"

With as much pain as he's in, the glass cutting into his skin is just another brick in the wall. He can feel his blood oozing from the fresh wound, trickling down his neck. It's not deep enough to kill; that wouldn't be any fun. The pain he can deal with, it's what she does next that gets his temper flaring.

With her hand tightly fisted in his hair, Yusupova straddles his lap before leaning in and dragging her tongue along the neat incision she's just created. She makes an absolutely obscene noise, lapping at his blood as a kitten would milk, her hips shifting against his own in perverse delight. Harry feels anger, hot and bright, burning in his chest as she pulls back, her lips stained with his blood, dying them even redder than the wine.

"Such a scary face from one who tastes so sweet," she croons, a cruel laugh following her words. "Mm, I would love to hear you scream. I bet you sound as sweet as you taste."

"I suppose it's unfortunate you'll never know," Harry croaks.

"So confident!" Yusupova laughs delightedly. "I love a challenge. We'll see how long you can last before your friends join us."

"I don't have any friends."

"So you say, but it's rude to lie to beautiful women. Did you think I would not recognize you? Did you think you could ruin my Papa's name and sleep peacefully? No, no, Тигрёнок. I have plans for you and your friends."

"Miss Yusupova you may threaten me all you wish, it will not change a thing," Harry tells her almost boredly.

"Mm, that we shall see," Yusupova says, tracing his lips with the tip of her finger.

She slides off his lap and sashays back towards her chair, but Harry knows better than to believe she's done with him.

 

* * *

 

Watching James and Martin work is something that Merlin rarely gets to see first hand. He'd trained them and Harry has mentored them, so of course he has no doubts as to their skill level, but seeing it up close and personal is entirely different. He can't help the way his chest swells with pride at seeing their two youngest working with brutal efficiency, entirely focused and deadly in their intent, wasting neither time nor energy in pushing through the chateau's defenses. None of them want to imagine what could possibly be happening to Harry - or what's already happened to him. Getting to him as quickly as possible without distractions is the primary objective and dwelling on what state he may be in will help none of them.

At least, this is what Merlin tells himself until a scream echoes through the halls. Harry's scream. The three of them pause, each catching the eye of the other two. Harry's no pushover. To make him scream like that... It just means they'll have to move faster.

Martin nods over his shoulder, indicating that it's time to move. Swiftly and silently, the three of them push forward through the halls. They avoid using firearms when they can, and given how broad their skill sets are, this doesn't present as much of an issue. Presently he's watching Martin break a man's neck, his hand covering the guard's mouth to cut off any noises of surprise. Merlin helps him lower the man to the ground, before James helps them cart him off to the side. It's decidedly more brutal than their typical operations, but this isn't the time to be gentlemen. When the bespoke comes off, that's the signal to put their training to full use. No holds barred.

"Can't be long now until they notice the halls aren't being patrolled," James whispers.

Almost as if on cue, they hear a flurry of angry Russian and the thudding of heavy boots. So much for stealth. They'll have to face them head on now.

"Merlin, stay as far out of the fighting as possible," Martin says, readying his sidearm. "I don't want you in the thick of it unless absolutely necessary."

"Percival and I will handle the bulk of it," James affirms. "Just hang back and cover us, alright?"

Merlin feels a brief spike of agitation as his youngers instruct him to stay back. He knows they're only doing it for his safety, but part of him can't help but resent the fact that they have to. He'd insisted on coming but standing between the two Knights he feels more like a liability than an extra man. That only steels his resolve to make sure he isn't one.

"Go on then," he tells them. "I've got your backs."

"стой на месте!"

The furious exclamation is followed by the hallway being crowded on both sides. But before any of their adversaries can get a word in, James neatly takes care of three soldiers straight out of the gate with precision marksmanship that outclassed even Harry's in the range. Martin chooses to utilize his own strength; namely his speed and the tactical short sword strapped to his back. Combined with Merlin providing cover fire, hired hands drop like flies on both sides but he knows these are just the grunts. The real problem is going to be what comes after them.

It's over fairly quickly, the hall littered with former Spetznaz and military alike. This is no time for celebrating, though.

"Let's move while the way's still clear," Merlin tells them, James tailing him as they step over bodies to reach Martin. "We're not far from where I think they're - "

Merlin cuts himself short, jumping back along with James as a heavy metal slab nearly crushes the both of them. It had come out of nowhere; almost literally as far as Merlin was concerned. He'd done a precursory sweep of the building, checked the blueprints, nothing told him that they would be dealing with trap doors. He curses at the unexpected roadblock, knowing it's just going to take them even longer now to get to Harry.

"Percival, are you there?" Merlin asks, fingers pressing lightly to his spectacles.

_"Here, Merlin. Are you and Lancelot unharmed?"_

"We're fine, but looking at this door, I don't believe I've got anything on me that will get us through it. We'll have to find another way around," Merlin says

_"...alright. I'm going on ahead."_

"Do you think that's wise, Percival?" James cuts in.

_"Wise or not, sitting still isn't an option. You focus on getting yourself and Merlin through to this side, I'll see about locating Galahad."_

"Very well. Keep us updated," Merlin tells him.

_"Likewise."_

Merlin isn't any happier about this turn of events than James is, but as it stands, they haven't got much of a choice in the matter. Having Martin off on his own fills Merlin with unease, but there's a chance he could get to Harry quicker now that Merlin and James have reached a dead end and they simply don't have time to spare waiting until they've all regrouped to proceed.

"Right then, looks like it's just you and me, Lancelot," Merlin says, replacing the magazine in his firearm. "I'm fairly certain I know which way will get us where we need to go. All ready?"

"Couldn't be more so if I tried," James answers as the two of them set out. "Let's just pray we can be quick about it."

 

* * *

 

Martin should be glad he encounters little resistance en route to where they believe Harry is being held. Instead he just feels uneasy. Had they been detoured to take care of Merlin and James? Is it just meant to throw him off his game? Whatever the reason, it isn't right and he's not letting his guard down.

He reaches a large, nearly empty room, about the size of a tennis court. Nearly empty, but not quite. In the center of the room, a lone light shining down on him, is a figure strapped to a wooden chair. Harry. Even from a distance, he can see blood, can see shaking in his limbs. Harry's in rough shape, which means he needs to expedite this rescue. Still, he's not fool enough to believe he can just waltz in and take Harry home. There's bound to be someone waiting for him.

Tokarev at the ready, he creeps through the door frame, checking all points around him as he moves. Even in doing this, he's unable to see into the shadows at the corners of the room, and more importantly what lurks there. As he draws closer, he can hear Harry's breathing has been reduced to a soft whine pitched within an unhealthy wheeze. He sits with his head bowed and muscles straining against his bonds, shaking as though he's been left in the cold.

The hairs raising on the back of his neck and a faint sound of rustling clothes are all the warning he gets. It's only thanks to quick reflexes that he dodges the kick to the head and blocks the subsequent back kick to his face. Ah. Here we are. The real muscle.

They don't waste any time getting down to business, nor would he expect them to. Martin is certainly nimble, but even he can't hope to come out unscathed when it's three-on-one. A combination leg sweep and clothesline takes him off his feet. His back and head connecting with the tiled floor knocks the wind from him, but he kicks out from the floor and catches one of them off guard.

This is hardly the time for wandering thoughts, but he finds himself praying that Merlin and James haven't encountered any of this lot. He doesn't care for the idea of Merlin testing his mettle against these kinds of opponents. Not to mention he'd been the one to toss his hat in the ring for Merlin coming along in the first place and he doesn't want to have to explain to Harry why the tech wizard is in the infirmary right alongside him.

An anguished howl echoes off the walls as Martin uses the blade of his short sword to sever the Achilles tendon of one of the soldiers. It hasn't taken him out completely, but it allows him to focus more on the other two. It's not a particularly easy or clean victory, but he's not looking for points on style. That's more up James's alley.

Panting and wiping blood from his hands, Martin makes sure there's no one else in the room before proceeding towards Harry. Placing his fingers gently to his spectacles he tries to radio in to Merlin and James... only to be met with static. Something isn't right. Merlin had already seen to it that there would be no interference within the chateau's walls and yet he finds himself unable to communicate with his colleagues. For the moment, he decides it's best if he focuses on Harry.

He kneels to get a better look and finds that Harry's straining against the ropes is in an effort to curl in on himself. His breathing is fast and uneven, sounding almost painful to Martin's ears. Reaching out, he brushes Harry's hair back from his forehead, noting how oddly warm he is and how he seems to be drenched in sweat.

"Galahad," Martin murmurs. "It's Percival. Lancelot and Merlin are on their way. We're taking you home."

Harry's eyes remain tightly squeezed shut, almost as though Martin's voice is causing him pain. Martin looks for signs of a head injury or perhaps a concussion, but finds none. Watching Harry shiver, he suddenly finds himself remembering the two of them being in very similar circumstances before, though their roles were reversed.

"Galahad. Leeds in '93. Did she inject you with it?" he asks.

Harry can only nod jerkily, as though not trusting himself to speak. But the action seems to have caused him some pain, as he can't contain a muffled groan, drawing Martin's attention. A quick examination reveals that, among the many other hurts, Harry's shoulder is dislocated. Martin doesn't savor the idea of resetting it but he knows it will only cause more pain if he leaves it be.

"Harry, your shoulder is dislocated. I'm afraid I'm going to have to set it. I know I don't have to warn you it will be painful," Martin tells him, slicing through the ropes binding him to his chair. "I'll make it quick."

He doesn't bother with a count down to prepare Harry, knowing the anticipation will only feed into the already torpid emotions wreaking havoc inside him. The fear toxin Martin had been exposed to five years ago had been in its experimental stages. He can only imagine what Harry must be going through now. But that's something they'll have to worry about later. Without preamble, he neatly pops Harry's shoulder back into place, tearing a scream from their Galahad and nearly sending him out of his chair. Martin's quick to brace him, the two of them moving to the floor as Harry all but clings to him, sucking in those shallow, wheezing breaths like he's breathing through a straw.

Martin remembers all too well what it had felt like being under the influence of that drug and it's not a situation he's looking to repeat. Seeing Harry in this state, however... It's not that Martin believes Harry to be fearless or invincible, but there's something particularly unsettling seeing a man who has been a mentor to him brought down to his knees in such a way. It's strange to see him cloaked in a level of fear that isn't natural to him, that's been chemically forced on him, and Martin isn't sure what he can do to help him now.

"We'll be leaving shortly, Harry. Just as soon as the others get - "

At first he thinks he hears the crack before he feels the pain associated with it. Martin knows he had just been kneeling beside Harry a moment ago but now he finds himself on his back, the ceiling shifting in his vision as pain hammers at the left side of his head.

"Leaving so soon, my little жестянщик?"

Natalia Yusupova's face slides into view, and with it, a handgun. He grits his teeth as she presses the barrel to his forehead, smiling sweetly down at him as she sits on top of him. This woman is one if a few who have ever truly gotten under his skin and he doesn't care for the fact that she now has him pinned beneath her like a predator that's finally caught its prey.

"I couldn't let you leave without having a little fun," she tells him. She shifts the gun, trailing the muzzle down his cheek with the softness of a lover's touch. "What do you think about the improvements we've made to the serum? A heightened sensitivity to pain... I think it's a good addition, don't you?"

A heightened sensitivity to pain. Martin suddenly feels a stab of guilt; having his shoulder popped back into place had to have been agony for Harry. He can see the man in question from the corner of his eye, curled into a shivering lump some several feet away. He wonders what other 'improvements' they've made to that vile toxin.

"I have to say, I'm pleased to see you again," Yusupova purrs. "We didn't have nearly enough time to play last year."

"I found it more than enough, personally," Martin responds.

She smiles, jamming the muzzle of the gun up under his chin, forcing his head back. "I suppose you would. Always so stiff! Well... not the parts of you that I'd like to be, but you know what I mean. Would you care to tell me what brings you to Antalya?"

"Not especially, no," Martin tells her, grunting when she shoves the gun roughly.

"You're a very rude guest. I don't know if anyone's told you that," Yusupova comments. "Your friend has much better manners. You called him... Galahad, I believe? Or was it Harry?"

Martin chooses not to answer, tired of her games and cursing himself for getting himself into this situation in the first place. He'd been distracted. And by what? Sentiment. Of all people, Percival had allowed emotion to override his training. The feelings of companionship that Harry had made him--... no, it's not Harry's fault. Harry hadn't forced him to feel any of those things.

Never the less, he doesn't feel like having a verbal tete-a-tete with this lunatic while Harry's suffering just feet away from him and Merlin and James are in god knows what state. Regardless of how he feels about harboring such emotions, he knows that escaping Yusupova and getting to Galahad is priority one. He won't be distracted again.

"Nothing to say? You never were the talkative type," Yusupova sighs, as though they're old school friends.

A strangled groan distracts both of them and for a moment, Martin forgets the gun pressed to his chin as he turns his head sharply in Harry's direction. He can hear the older man hyperventilating, tremors bordering on fitful as he falls deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole. Depending on when he was injected and what sort of modifications had been made to the toxin in the past five years, Harry might not have even reached the worst of it yet. He has to find a way out of this, quick. Not knowing what else those chemicals could be doing to Harry means he can't afford to waste any time.

"Ah, now we're getting to the fun part. But I suppose it's difficult to tell just from observation alone," Yusupova says with a nod to herself. Martin goes as stiff as a board when he feels something pressed against his neck. There's a soft hiss of decompressed air followed by a brief sting and Yusupova's cruel eyes glitter maddeningly in delight. "It's really something you have to try for yourself."

 

* * *

 

Merlin is rapidly losing patience. He's tried three times to hail Percival and each time he's been met with nothing but static. Bad enough that he and James had been forced to double back and find another way to their destination, but now he can't even find out if Martin has reached Harry yet. Even still, he knows he can't let that get the best of him, not when there's so much on the line.

James is by no means a pushover, but it doesn't change the fact that he is still their greenest Knight. Having only been on the job for a little over a year, there are still things he has to learn, still roles he has to figure out how to fit into. As much as Merlin trusts him to get the job done, he's still a little warier than he would be with, say, Martin.

Or Harry.

Logically, Merlin knows that Yusupova would have found a way to take one of them. It was just a matter of finding one of them alone and Harry happened to draw the short stick in that regard. But Merlin still feels responsible. If he had taken Harry's proposal seriously, would they be in this situation? The fact that he hadn't done it intentionally means little to him. No matter how he works it out, it always comes back to the fact that he had let Harry down.

As inundated by these thoughts as he is, his head is clear as they press onward. Clear enough to notice that the wine cooler in a room they pass by is not a wine cooler. Or at the very least, it's not being used as one. Something about it grabs him, telling him it's important that he not bypass it, as anxious as he is to get to Harry. He reaches out, grabbing James by the elbow to slow him down. Perplexed, James looks back at him, waiting for him to explain. Merlin merely nods towards the interior of the room and that's enough for James to follow.

"I know you've brought us over here for more than an impromptu wine tasting," James says quietly, "but can I ask what that reason is?"

"There's something about this cooler," Merlin answers, looking the refrigerated unit over. "Look. It's not as deep as the others."

"Hiding something important, then?" James reasons, quirking an eyebrow.

"Let's find out."

Quiet as can be, Merlin picks the lock on the unit and gets them access to its contents. The wine held within is genuine - and expensive. Far more expensive than the contents of the other coolers. It would justify the smaller storage space, but Merlin is positive there's more to this than meets the eye. He's still working on adapting the scanner feature to the spectacles and curses the fact that he doesn't have it available now. It would have saved him a great deal of time. But Merlin didn't get to where he is relying on gadgets alone, and as for taking them apart? There's no one better.

"Oh my, aren't you clever," Merlin mumbles to himself, deft fingers sliding against the false back of the interior.

It looks to be a completely smooth surface - unless you're looking for something out of place. Namely, the small one-by-one inch square that he pushes in. Merlin draws back as a hiss of air is emitted from the edges of the container and the interior draws outward before sliding to the side opposite the door. Within the space revealed are shelves divided into two distinct sides, both containing row after row of small, marked vials. The vials on the left contain an amber liquid, the vials on the right contain clear liquid.

Given who they're dealing with, Merlin can make an educated guess as to what they are. He remembers all too well when Martin had been exposed to this substance's experimental predecessor five years prior. Looking closely, he can see two clear vials are missing as well as a single vial of its amber colored brother.

"Well, you've certainly got a nose for these things, Merlin," James says appreciatively. "But exactly what are we looking at?"

"If I'm correct in my assumption - which I believe I am - this is a fear toxin developed by Ms. Yusupova's father," Merlin answers, tucking several of each vial into his pack. "We've only encountered it in its experimental stages. Percival was exposed to it in '93. The effects were... not pleasant."

James grimaces, no doubt imagining what that may have looked like. "If it's as bad as you say it is, we should get moving. Those missing vials give me a very bad feeling."

"Aye, I feel the same," Merlin answers.

He doesn't want to say he's worried Harry may have run afoul of the toxin. Saying it would make it far too real and Merlin prefers to keep it quietly tucked away in the realm of possibility. Which is precisely what he does as he and James return the cooler to its original state and continue on their path.

The halls remain eerily vacant, only ramping up his concern. It's possible she'd only brought the essentials as far as hired muscle, given that this did seem to be a vacation home, which could explain why they'd encountered very few adversaries. That, or it's a ploy to get them to drop their guard, in which case, it isn't working.

But as they round a corner, Merlin finds himself eating his words. Three particularly disgruntled gentlemen greet them with the muzzles of their guns and Merlin plans to give as good as he gets. Plans to.

James Spencer has a habit of taking Merlin's plans and blowing them to hell. Merlin finds himself on the floor with James on top of him, having only squeezed off one shot. Despite this, there are three bodies on the floor in front of them.

"Alright, Merlin?" James asks.

"Minus the crushed spleen, wonderful," Merlin says as James rises off of him and helps him to his feet. "What on Earth was that for?"

"I recognized those firearms. The rounds they were loaded with would've pierced through our tactical gear," James supplies, tapping his fore and middle finger to his right shoulder.

Merlin knows there are two scars beneath the layers of clothing that more than back up that statement. All the same, he doesn't think it was necessary to tackle him to the ground. But while his eyes are drawn to James's shoulder, he spies a tear in his sleeve, revealing a bloody gash beneath.

"It appears as though they have," Merlin tuts unhappily, inspecting the injury.

"Just a scratch!" James assures him with a wink. "Better than risking a bullet in our old goat."

Assuring himself that it is indeed a very shallow graze, Merlin sighs and shakes his head. "Do me a favor and spare me any further acts of heroism, will you?"

"I make no promises," James declares with a broad smile.

"I thought as much," Merlin says as they move to press onward. "You and Percival fret far too much. I think at times you forget that I have more field experience than either of you."

"Think of it less as being about us not trusting you and more about neither of us wanting to face Harry should anything happen to you," James says over his shoulder.

Merlin already knows Harry will have a fit simply for his being here. It's not that Harry worries without reason, rather that how much he worries is unreasonable. Merlin isn't blind to the fact that his condition presents a liability in the field, but he doesn't need to be _coddled_ like this, for goodness' sake. Martin had made the correct call, citing the need for all the bodies they had available to them. It's not as though he goes traipsing into suicide missions left and right. There's a reason for his being here.

...even if he won't admit that reason is simply that he can't sit idly by while Harry is in this kind of danger. This is different than acting as Harry's handler; Merlin has seen him in plenty of dangerous situations in the past. But here and now isn't something he can talk Harry through. It's not something he can talk James and Martin through. There are too many variables, too many unknowns to account for. Up close and personal is the only way he can help in this case, whether Harry likes it or not.

But that will have to come later. They encounter another dozen or so guards who are all dispatched with equal measures of expediency until at last, Merlin knows they've reached their destination. But the scene that greets them pushes Merlin's heart up into his throat. There are six figures in total. Three are Yusupova's guards, all lying in various states of incapacitation or dismemberment. One is Yusupova herself, lying face down and unmoving, blood dying her sleek blonde hair a bright, coppery red. And finally there are Harry and Martin; the former curled up on his side and the latter kneeling before him.

James hurries forward alongside Merlin, quickly checking to be sure their surroundings are safe and that they're not running headlong into a trap, which thankfully doesn't appear to be the case. As they draw upon them, Merlin can see the sheer volume of blood; on Harry, on Martin, pooled and smeared on the marble floor. Martin's hands are soaked in it, like he's just dunked them in a sink full of the stuff. Harry, devoid of his jacket, shows red patches blossoming in various points along his shirt like a field of red poppy flowers - and this is merely what Merlin can see, being that Harry's back is to them.

"Percival, how is he?" Merlin asks, quickly taking a knee beside Harry.

James helps him to gently maneuver his fellow Knight onto his back. Merlin struggles with the sudden combination of white hot anger and the raw ache in his chest at seeing the state Harry's in. Yusupova had certainly not pulled her punches. Though not conscious, thankfully Harry is breathing, even if it's a bit too fast in an unhealthy sounding wheeze. Merlin presses his fingers to Harry's pulse point, noting the skin of his neck is entirely too warm to the touch and slick with a thin layer of perspiration. As he expected, Harry's pulse is elevated, but not at a dangerous level. Most of Harry's injuries appear to be the result of blunt-force trauma, which means Merlin's main concern is broken bones and internal bleeding. However, there's nothing he can do for that just yet, not without the proper equipment. Resting a hand on Harry's forehead, he's almost glad Harry is unconscious; it affords him some relief from what Merlin is certain is going to be horrific pain when he wakes.

"Percy?"

Merlin looks up at the sound of James's voice. The newest knight stares at the youngest, watching him with some concern. It's only then Merlin realized Martin had never answered him. On hands and knees, his head hangs between his bunched up shoulders and Merlin can hear for himself how Martin's breathing mimics Harry's. It's only now that he notices the jet injector on the floor beside him, loaded with one empty vial.

"Percival," Merlin says firmly. "What did you do?"

Martin shakes his head and for a moment, Merlin's sure he won't answer. "It's more potent but it... t-takes longer to start w-w-working. She talks too m-much."

"What was in the vial loaded in that jet injector?" Merlin presses him.

Martin takes several deep breaths. "Antidote."

"Which you administered to Galahad," Merlin concludes.

"W-worse off," Martin says by way of an explanation. His hands ball into tight fists against the marble floor, and Merlin's sure his knuckles would be white if he could see them through the blood.

Merlin can't help the brief flutter of fondness he feels for the two men opposite him. He and Harry had chosen right in taking these two on. Martin has come a long way since he was brought on and James has been a very welcome combination of levity and loyalty. Yes, they'd chosen right. Merlin pushes his pack over to James, nodding at the injector between him and Martin.

"Lancelot, fish out one of those amber vials, load it into the injector and administer it to Percival while I see about binding some of Galahad's wounds," Merlin instructs calmly, already unraveling a roll of gauze.

James doesn't ask questions, just quietly and promptly does as Merlin had said, retrieving one of the vials and replacing the empty one in the injector. Satisfied that James will see to Martin, Merlin proceeds with the unpleasant task of cleaning and wrapping any of the injuries he can get to. He wishes he could see to them all right here and now, but at the back of his mind, he knows what he's accomplishing here is more just for comfort. They have to get moving soon, since there's no telling who else could be lurking within the chateau. Without proper diagnostic equipment and medical supplies, his options are limited, but he does as best he can given the circumstances.

By the time Merlin decides he's done all he can for the time being, he finds Martin is sitting now beside James, looking worn but thankfully not out of his mind with panic. Never the less, he still flinches when James lays a hand on his shoulder and hurriedly pushes him off, rising unsteadily to his feet and looking over to Merlin.

"We need to go," he says. "I'll assist you with Galahad... Lancelot, you'll have to take point."

It doesn't escape Merlin's notice that Martin specifically tells James to take point. 

"...alright," James says slowly, still watching him closely.

Martin ducks down and helps Merlin raise Harry to a seated position. Between the two of them, they manage to lift him up, each with one of his arms over their shoulders and a bracing hand on his back. Harry hangs limply between them like a rag doll, giving no indication that the move had roused him in any way. Merlin's not sure now if he's gladdened or terrified by that fact. Though it's slowed down somewhat, Harry's breaths still come in a wheezy rasp that make Merlin start to consider a punctured lung. Possibly filling with fluid. He'll have to check for a concussion, ruptured organs and blood vessels, fractures.

These thoughts fill him with a nervous energy that tells him they have to go, go now. Off the get, James leading them like they're participants in a three legged race. But with one member out cold and beaten within an inch of his life and another looking ready to drop on the first flat surface that presented itself, Merlin's not expecting to win any ribbons. At this point, just making it out and back to the plane will be more than enough. He gives a brief thought to Yusupova, lying face down on the floor, and wonders if she's alive or dead. Frankly, however, he finds he doesn't give a fuck.

Whatever she was doing in Turkey in the first place, whatever the ramifications of this little rescue mission will be, whether she lives or dies and what comes of it, none of it matters. They're all problems for another day.

 

* * *

 

There are times when Harry regrets his smart mouth. Waking up in the infirmary on the Kingsman estate, he figures he may have saved himself a broken rib or two if he'd held his tongue but he'd rather not be denied the satisfaction. Still, this is the worst beating he's had in recent memory and he knows he'll be feeling it for quite some time.

"Harry?"

He doesn't need to open his eyes to place the voice with the fingers gently carding through his hair.

"Mm?" he murmurs.

"How are you feeling?"

Much as he may not want to, Harry opens his eyes all the same, only for his gaze to land on one particularly troubled looking Scotsman hovering anxiously at his bedside. The events of their last night in Turkey come trickling back to him bit by bit and he feels a brief stab of guilt over the worry he must have caused his partner.

"Sore. But I'll live," Harry sighs. "That bloody toxin was the worst part of the whole damn thing..."

He'd be just fine and dandy if he never crossed paths with that particular chemical cocktail ever again. It had given him a new appreciation for whatever Martin must have gone through that time in Leeds years ago. It was nauseating. All those feelings of dread and terror being pushed on him and he could do nothing to stop them. It was like someone had hardwired his brain and was cranking up the dials for every negative emotion he had. There was nothing he could do to ease his own suffering; he'd been forced to just ride it out as it all grew progressively worse by the moment. It felt like dying. Worse than dying, somehow. That's what he thinks, anyway.

A sudden thought occurs to him, sending a jolt of adrenaline through him. "Where's Martin?"

Merlin has a hand pressed flat to Harry's chest, shushing him and gently encouraging him to relax against the pillows. But Martin had been injected as well, he remembers, she'd had him pinned right next to Harry.

"Martin is fine. Mags gave him a thorough examination and he's been sleeping off the drug's residual effects," Merlin assures him. "Other than essentially having a bad hangover from the stuff, he's perfectly fine."

The answer puts Harry at ease somewhat, though not entirely. He feels positive that this has left Martin with more than "a bad hangover," as Merlin had put it. Given how the younger man already struggles to handle emotions... He can't imagine Martin is feeling particularly peachy in that regard. But for the time being, he has to take Merlin's word.

"Harry," Merlin says, interrupting his thoughts. He looks up to see the tip of the tech wizard's tongue wetting his lips, as though he's nervous about something. "About what happened that night..."

"It's alright, Merlin. Let it be," Harry instructs him.

"No, no, I can't just let it be," Merlin says, blowing out a frustrated breath. "If I hadn't bungled the whole thing you wouldn't have been down at that bar in the first place."

"Which means Ms. Yusupova would have simply waited for another opportunity. It could have been James or Martin... or you. In that regard, I'd rather it was me," Harry tells him.

"Of course you would," Merlin says with a fond huff of laughter. He traces his knuckles gently along the curve of Harry's cheek, taking note of how the bruising is healing. "But that doesn't change the fact that I was at fault."

Harry isn't sure what to say to Merlin. He knows his partner is going to hold onto this with the grip of a dying man, refusing to let his self-assigned blame go. Yes, Harry had been... hurt. It had cut him deeply knowing that Merlin never considered it anything beyond a joke, a clever trick. It had wounded him that Merlin had never even bothered to look inside the box. He feels a small ache still, like a bad tooth which has already been pulled, but not like that night.

He knows there's a long conversation which needs to be had about this, but knowing both of them, they won't be getting around to it any time soon. At the moment, he's just too plain tired to give it much more though. Regardless of that night, he just wants Merlin here with him now. He doesn't want to have to dig up those ugly feelings. Not when he's feeling so rotten as it is.

"Let's just agree to disagree for the time being," Harry declares.

Merlin nods slowly in agreement, but Harry can tell by the crease in his brow that there's more on his mind. "Then about your, ah... about what happened at dinner. The box. Perhaps we should talk about that."

"I believe... that's best saved for another day," Harry says.

They're not ready. He knows that. And strangely, that's almost alright. They'll have that talk when they are ready, whenever that may be. Harry wants nothing more than to slip that ring on the finger of the man who now holds Harry's hand in his own. He wants nothing more than to wed this man, to cherish him for the rest of their lives, to love him morning, noon and night. He wants nothing more than to make this man his husband, to share everything he is with him with no restraint.

Yet he knows it simply can't be. With their work, with society, with Arthur, they can't even just be together. Marriage is at this point nothing more than a fanciful daydream. But he hasn't given up hope that the day will come when Merlin will take his name and him with it.

"Just stay for now," Harry sighs, closing his eyes. "Please."

He feels lips pressed to his forehead and the whisper of Merlin's breath against his skin as he says, "Of course."

"Well, someone's feeling better!"

James and his impeccable timing. Harry doesn't bother opening his eyes, tired out as he is.

"Hello, James," Harry says.

"Have you two, ah... talked?" James asks.

"Yes, we've talked. Everything's fine," Harry mumbles.

He hears an incredulous laugh. "Well, well, you're taking Merlin's little jaunt into the field much better than I thought you would."

Harry's eye snap open, any trace of exhaustion forced out of him. "His _what_!?"

Merlin stares up at the ceiling, refusing to meet his gaze while James stands like a deer in the headlights.

"Martin and I made sure he wasn't in any danger!" James says quickly. "And even if he was, I made sure I took the bullet instead."

"You were _shot_!?"

"No! No, it was just a graze! Ah... I... think you both must have some things to talk about," James says with a nervous chuckle. He sets the vase full of flowers he'd brought onto the nearby table. "Why don't I just... leave these here and let you gents get to it? Right! Lovely to see you awake, Harry! Get well soon! Cheers, Merlin!"

 

* * *

 

James admittedly feels bad leaving Merlin to what could very quickly become a murder/suicide. But frankly, he's still got his whole life ahead of him and doesn't feel like being strangled to death by one Harry Hart. That fate will probably fall to Martin, the poor bastard.

Yet, even while dodging Harry's wrath, James can't help but smile; it may not be any time soon, it might not be tomorrow or a year from now or ten years from now, but he knows without a doubt that someday he has a wedding to look forward to.


	8. brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're lost and you're lonely  
> Go and figure out why  
> Take a trip to your darkside  
> Go on and have a good cry  
> Cause we're all lonely  
> Yeah we're all lonely together

As the plane touches down on the runway, James keeps his gaze firmly away from the windows. He doesn't want to look outside and confirm his creeping fear that he'd hallucinated the call with Harry two days prior. Seeing him alive had been an unexpected bright spot in what was otherwise a dark, dark time and he's not sure he could bear to find it had all been a daydream.

 

Taking a deep breath, he squeezes Martin's hand and catches Roxy's gaze. She's seated across from him on the opposite side of Martin's bed and though her expression is neutral he sees the anxiety mingling with anticipation in her eyes. They'd been prepared to arrive the morning after the call with Harry, but he'd been quick to assure them they could take their time; given Martin's condition, he had no wish to rush them.

 

"Alright, why don't you two make your way out while my staff prepares to move Mr. Gainsborough," Warren says, appearing from the next compartment.

 

"You're sure you wouldn't like our help?" James asks, reluctant to release his partner's hand.

 

Warren shakes her head. "It will be easiest if you leave it to them. I'd like to get him moved into Statesman's infirmary with as little fuss as possible."

 

James knows she's trying to politely tell him he'd just be in the way. Which he understands, truly, just... he feels as though Martin may stop breathing if James isn't there to watch over him at all times. It's ridiculous, but he can't seem to rid himself of the idea.

 

"Right. Of course," James answers, rising from his seat. 

 

Giving the slumbering Percival's hand one last squeeze, he leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead, assuring him they'll be along shortly. Roxy does much the same, kissing him on the cheek and murmuring something to him in a tone too quiet for James to hear. She joins James and moves towards the front of the cabin, leaving Warren and her staff to take care of Martin.

 

As they walk towards the exit hatch, Revere emerges from the pilot's cabin alongside Franklin. A thin, fair woman with fiery red hair and a thick Irish accent to match it, they'd been introduced to her just the night prior. She reminds James of Merlin, with quick fingers and an even quicker mind, apparently a jack of all trades who juggles multiple responsibilities within the organization. (In truth, the couple bears an uncanny resemblance to Harry and Merlin, if you ask him.) Franklin dips her head in a nod, flashing them a quick smile as she clutches her clipboard to her chest.

 

"You're both looking rather grim for a pair about to be reunited with their friends," Adams declares, taking the arm that Revere offers her.

 

"I suppose it's all just a bit overwhelming," Roxy admits. "Especially considering we'd thought Gala--I mean, Arthur was dead for the past two years."

 

"Understandable. It's not every day one has the sort of luck that brings back the ones we thought we buried," Adams replies.

 

"Certainly isn't," James agrees. A twitter of nervous laughter escapes him. "Though, do me a favor when we walk out there and let me know if you can see him, too."

 

He feels Roxy's hand on his arm and shoots her a smile to assure her he's alright. It sounds ridiculous, he knows. But he's not entirely convinced he isn't just spiralling into yet another mental breakdown. It was a state he'd become a little too familiar with over the past few years. He'd been doing better lately and the thought of slipping backward is... disheartening. He can't afford to now. James has to be there for Martin the way Martin had been there for him.

 

Not to mention he just plain wants Harry to be alive. Harry is one of his oldest friends. He had been a mentor and a confidante, a source of strength, more a brother to James than those bound to him by blood. Coming back from Valentine's compound, after months of torture, only to find Harry had died? That he'd been murdered? James would've rather rotted away in that cell than for Harry to have died.

 

Only now it seems they've both survived. And isn't that the strangest thing? Suddenly James finds himself at the tail end of a procession with his niece at his side as they file out of the plane. 

 

There's a small group gathered on the tarmac awaiting their arrival, it would seem. There are two... well, there's no real way to describe them other than cowboys. There's an older one with grey hair whom James recognizes from the conference call previously. He knows this man is called "Champ." Beside him is a younger man, perhaps about Roxy's age, thumbs hooked on his belt and relaxed into an easy stance.

 

Eggsy. James sees him running. Towards them. Or more specifically towards Roxy, who's running in his direction with equal fervor. They collide into one another at such speed that they're both nearly thrown to the ground, but that hardly seems to bother them as each pulls the other into an embrace that looks tight enough to snap bone. Seeing Roxy reunited with her best friend brings a lightness to James's chest that he hadn't quite expected. They share a strong bond, one that had resulted in more than a few tears from his niece when they'd thought Eggsy lost. He's glad that bond wasn't cut prematurely short.

 

There's a fourth figure standing there among the others, but James is almost afraid to properly look at him. When he does, he sees a man; classically handsome, his hair neatly parted with single rebellious curl falling over his forehead and a lone warm, brown eye that seems to be missing its partner. The man is wearing a familiar smile, one that he's seen many times and missed many times more.

 

Harry Hart stands before him whole and alive and for a moment James doesn't know what to say.

 

It feels as though he's been punched in the chest, only in the best way possible. Harry holds out his hand and James grasps it in his own, confirming without a doubt that this is a being of flesh and blood and not some horrid spectre of his mind's own creation. Harry's grip is firm, his hand warm in James's, worn with gun callouses in the same way his own are.

 

"Arthur," James greets him.

 

"Lancelot," Harry returns.

 

This is still, after all, official business. They may be less reserved than their predecessors, but they're not quite as free as the ones who will succeed them. James grins, laughing.

 

"No, not anymore," James reminds him.

 

Harry hums thoughtfully. "I suppose not. But then, you were always my Lancelot, so you'll forgive my error, I hope."

 

James feels his grin grow with Harry's words. His free hand comes up to grasp Harry's forearm, unwilling to let go of his hand just yet.

 

"My god," James says with an elated laugh. "My god, Harry, you have no idea how glad I am you're alive."

 

He gives James's shoulder a fond squeeze. "I believe I may have an idea. We should talk later over drinks. Would you?"

 

"Name the time and the place and I'll be happy to wait the extra twenty minutes it takes for you to show," James says.

 

Harry laughs - Christ he's missed that laugh - as James lets go of his hand, but he doesn't remove his other hand from James's shoulder. Instead he reaches with the other and holds James by his shoulders at arms' length. Giving James a good, long look, he stands there as though holding himself back from anything more than this.

 

"It's good to see you, James," Harry says. 

 

"That's how you greet someone you thought was dead for two years? A handshake?" Revere comments with a laugh. "Take a leaf from your niece's notebook, it'll hardly kill either of you."

 

"Actually I think it might," Champ says scratching his chin. 

 

But he doesn't consider the matter long, James notices. Not when Adams makes her appearance. The Statesman's leader removes his hat from his head, placing it over his heart as he bends at the waist in a bow.

 

"Philomena."

 

"Beauregard," Adams answers warmly.

 

Well, well. There's certainly something more to that relationship, he thinks. Adams is more difficult to read, he finds, but Champ has a twinkle in his eye that speaks volumes. But now isn't the time to start theorizing.

 

"Why don't we all step inside, see to getting you folks settled and introductions and all that," Champ declares. He nods behind them. "Whiskey's waiting in medical. Though as I understand it, your own physician should be arriving by tomorrow."

 

James feels Harry squeeze his shoulder again, harder than before, as they watch Warren and her staff relocate Martin and all the medical equipment they'd brought with him. The new Arthur's lips are set in a firm, thin line, his face betraying no emotion but his rigid posture telling James all he needs to know. His own chest grows tight, feeling his elation deflate slightly as he recalls not all their news is so happy.

 

"And Merlin?" he asks.

 

"Coma," Harry says tightly. He seems to remember himself, because he returns his attention to James. "But he's been well taken care of. I have no doubt Whiskey will do the same for Percival."

 

If Harry believes it, then James believes it. Harry's never gone back on his word and James can't imagine he'd start now.

 

"Whiskey's about as bright as they come," Champ says with a serious nod, donning his hat once more. "Between her and Warren, there's no better place your people could be."

 

Harry nods in agreement, though James is sure that, like him, he'll feel better about it all once Morgana arrives.

 

"Ah, but introductions," Harry says. He gestures towards James. "This is our former Lancelot, James Spencer." As Eggsy and Roxy join them, Harry gestures to Roxy. "And our present Lancelot, his niece, Roxanne Morton." He looks to Adams and the two Sons agents as he finally gestures to Eggsy. "And our Galahad, Eggsy Unwin."

 

"Eggsy?" Revere echoes curiously, her lips drawing up on an amused smile. "That's quite a name."

 

"It's a nickname. He hated eggs as a baby," James says with a smug grin.

 

Unsurprisingly, both Eggsy and Roxy look to him with mingled disbelief and suspicion.

 

"How'd _you_ know?" Eggsy demands.

 

"Lee told me," James tells him.

 

"I didn't tell you shit!" says... the young cowboy whose name he doesn't know.

 

"I beg your pardon?" James exclaims.

 

Champ swats the young cowboy lightly before looking to James. "And this'd be Tequila, or as his headstone will read, Lee Stetson."

 

Tequila looks to Champ with a put-out expression. "Well how'm I supposed to know his dad's name was the same as mine?"

 

"Because shockingly there are other people in this world named Lee, dickhead."

 

As he sees a young woman and man approaching them, James has to wonder just how many people are going to be joining this party. He hears Revere sigh loudly, in that long-suffering, albeit fond, way that denotes a close relationship.

 

"And with that entrance, allow me to introduce my problem child, Nashoba Roux, also known as Lamb. As well as her partner and part time babysitter, Ethan Spencer, also known as Swan," Revere elaborates.

 

The young woman, Lamb, looks to be somewhere in her twenties. Her jet black hair compliments her bronze skin tone, and dark, almond shaped eyes set above high cheek bones. She seems confident, playful, walking towards the group with the sort of swagger that says there's mischief in her wake.

 

The young man beside her, Swan, seems a little more serious than his partner... though not by a great deal if one can judge from the grin on his face, even as he rolls his eyes. He's tall and lean with dark hair and a rosy complexion. Lively blue eyes study each of them in turn and James gets the distinct impression that he may not be quite as much a stranger to mischief as Revere likes to believe.

 

"Hey, Tequila, heard you got dosed like a goon with that whole Golden Circle thing," Lamb crows delightedly.

 

"Yeah? Well, you'd'a wound up right there with me if Swan wasn't watching your ass," Tequila grouses.

 

"Alright, kids, settle down. Some of us have had a very trying few days, so let's not leave our new friends out on the runway, huh?" Revere says, quickly restoring order to what James is beginning to see is a very lively group.

 

"Let's get moseying then," Champ declares, offering Mina his arm.

 

She pats his bicep, but doesn't take it. "Thank you, Champ. But I think I'd like to take some time to get to know our new Arthur. You've had him all to yourself these last few days, after all."

 

Harry seems surprised, but ever the gentleman, offers his arm and informs her it would be a pleasure. Champ stands there looking like someone's just shot his dog, clearly not used to being turned down by his counterpart. James has to try not to laugh at the way Champ can't seem to decide if he's offended or flabbergasted and judging by Eggsy's snicker, he's not the only one.

 

"Yikes. Trouble in paradise?" Lamb asks Champ gleefully.

 

A clipboard bats at the back of her head with a dull _thwomp_ , wielded by Franklin. "Enough, Nasha."

 

"Alright, alright," Lamb concedes holding her hands up in a show of innocence. "Just trying to lighten the mood."

 

The group sets off as a whole, gradually making their way to the distillery's main building. Fragments of conversation filter through James's awareness as he straggles behind the rest of them, staring at the back of Harry's head. A trying few days. He has a feeling they have quite a few more ahead of them, but with Harry here... things will turn out alright. James is sure of it.

 

 

* * *

 

James stares into the fire, hands in his pockets and mind running on fumes. It feels like days since he's slept. Maybe it has been. He's not sure. But he wouldn't dream of standing Harry up. Not for anything. There will be plenty of time to sleep later and seeing Harry now is more important.

 

There's a soft click as the door to the library swings open behind him. Harry enters the room, offering him a brief nod in greeting before shutting the door behind him. The library is warm and inviting with its wooden shelves and leather bound furniture. It's a little bit familiar, almost.

 

"Only 15 minutes. I'm shocked," James teases.

 

"I stopped to check in on Merlin. And Martin," Harry replies, crossing the room to stand beside him before the fireplace. "I'll feel more comfortable when Mags is here."

 

"Likewise," James murmurs. Not that he doubts the others, it's just... well, it's Mags. 

 

Silence falls over both of them and for a moment, James isn't sure what to do. His tired brain can't seem to come up with anything to say. Or maybe it's simply that he had _too many_ things to say.

 

"How about that drink then?" Harry asks, sparing him from fumbling for something to start a conversation.

 

"Oh, right. I'd nearly forgotten," James replies. 

 

The two of them walk over to the table nearest the window where a decanter of whiskey lies waiting with four empty glasses. Harry takes two of these and takes his time pouring generously for both of them. James watches the way the light of the fire catches in the amber liquid, nearly mesmerized by the constantly shifting pattern.

 

"James."

 

He looks up to find Harry is holding a glass out to him. His eyes move from the glass to Harry's face and he watches the the way the fire catches in the warm depths of his remaining eye. It feels as though James is moving on autopilot. He steps past the offered glass and throws his arms around the older man, embracing him as a brother, nearly tight enough to hurt. 

 

James's forehead falls to Harry's shoulder and he squeezes his eyes shut tight. He knows he's the emotional one, the least buttoned up out of all of them, and perhaps this is making Harry uncomfortable... but he couldn't let go of him now if he tried. He hears the sound of the glass being set down and feels Harry's arms come to encircle him, squeezing back just as tightly, and if the shaky sigh he hears is any indication, Harry needs this just as much as he does.

 

"Christ, Harry, I missed you," James tells him quietly. "When they found me and they told me you were... God, it hurt worse than anything they did to me in that hell hole. I didn't want to believe that you were gone. I couldn't. It just... It just hurt _so much_."

 

Harry's hold on him grows tighter the more James says. He reaches up, laying a hand on James's head like Christ among the lepers. James's eyes sting. His chest aches.

 

"I'm so sorry, James," Harry says hoarsely. "We should have come for you. Should've looked harder at the chalet..."

 

James huffs a watery laugh. "Harry, no, God. We should've found you. Two fucking years. Two fucking years you were holed up in a padded cell and Merlin was just... practically headed for one without you. But you're here now and that's... Harry, I love you like a brother. More than, even, mine were always such monumental twats... But the point is you're my brother; you always have been. And I'm so... so thankful you came home."

 

He can hear Harry's breathing has gone shaky on the exhale and it takes him a moment to realize that Harry might actually be crying. He's almost afraid to look and see if he's right. Harry's never cried in front of him. James is practically a water fountain, but Harry had always had a much tighter leash on his emotions.

 

"James," Harry chokes. "Good God, James. I still can't believe you're here. After everything, to have you standing here... I would've gladly taken your place. I would rather have died a thousand times than have you go through what they put you through. But to have both of us standing here... it's almost too hard to believe."

 

"Well, you know me. I'm like a bad penny; you can never seem to get rid of me," James says laughingly.

 

"If that's the case, then I'm immensely grateful you are one," Harry counters earnestly.

 

There are a few beats of silence before James blurts what's been on his mind. "...thank you. For looking after Martin when I was gone. He tells me you and Merlin took good care of him."

 

"Merlin did, yes," Harry replies. "I should have done more."

 

"Not according to Martin," James tells him.

 

"Well, it _is_ Martin so I'm not sure how accurate that statement could be," Harry notes.

 

James swallows thickly. "...yes."

 

The constant tug of war happening with his emotions is growing exhausting, frankly. Speaking of Martin now, he feels that coldness in his chest again, as though all the blood's been drained out, his organs and bones torn free and scooped from the cavity until he's as hollow as a Trojan horse. It never truly leaves his mind, but momentary distractions like this always make it harder to deal with. The fact that he has yet to wake. The fact that he might _never_ wake. The fact that, even if he does... he may not be Martin anymore.

 

"Why don't we take a seat," Harry tells him. "I really do think we could both use a drink."

 

Moments later finds them on the leather sofa gazing into the fire and though there is plenty of room for them to spread out, they sit comfortably shoulder to shoulder. James finds himself warming again between the fire and the whiskey and the solid presence of Harry beside him. For a short time, neither of them says anything. James knows Harry has a great deal on his mind; Merlin first and foremost, and Martin undoubtedly as well. But now he's the head of their organization. It falls to him to rebuild it quite literally from the ground up.

 

Again James feels a sense of guilt. What kind of pressure must he be feeling to meet their expectations of him? Apart from Arthur, there was never any official sense of rank among the Knights and yet he, Martin and Merlin had always looked to Harry as the unspoken leader of their little foursome. It was nothing he'd ever asked for, merely a dynamic they'd fallen into. He has to wonder though; had Harry even wanted this? Did he _want_ to be Arthur? Was leadership even something he strived for or just something he accepted because it was expected of him?

 

James only realizes he's been staring at the shaded lense covering Harry's missing eye once Harry turns to look at him. Perhaps he'd felt James's gaze upon him.

 

"You seem to have something on your mind," Harry observes. "Many things, I don't doubt, but it looks as though you're working through something in particular."

 

"I was just thinking," James murmurs, "how fortunate it was that we got you back with just an eye lost."

 

Harry's eye lowers from where it had held James's gaze. "That's not all I lost."

 

"No, of course, I didn't mean it to sound so dismissive," James says, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "You lost two years of your life. Well... more than, technically, when your memories we're gone."

 

"I lost Merlin," Harry says.

 

The words had been so quiet, so mournful, that for a moment James didn't believe they'd come from the man sitting beside him.

 

"Harry, don't say that," James tells him. "He'll wake up, you'll see."

 

Harry sighs heavily, the sound so weary that James swears he can feel the weight of it crushing him as well. "No, you misunderstand. I lost Merlin; I lost _my_ Merlin. My memories, when I thought I'd gotten them all back, but although I remembered who Merlin was... I didn't remember who he was to me."

 

"... didn't Merlin say anything? Anything at all?" James asks.

 

Harry shakes his head. "You know how Merlin is."

 

Unfortunately, James does. Harry doesn't need to spell it out. Undoubtedly Merlin had kept it to himself, not wanting to risk hurting Harry or put him under undue pressure. Just the same way he'd never told Eggsy about himself and Harry. He hadn't wanted the boy to worry. He never wanted to burden anyone else with his problems, never really quite grasping that they were never just _his_ problems. If one of them suffered, they all did. But that was Merlin for you; adamantly refusing to allow himself to become a burden even at the cost of his own happiness.

 

Or his life.

 

"But you remember now," James points out. "Then when did it come back to you?"

 

The question brings such a pained look to Harry's face that James nearly regrets asking. Harry pauses to refill their glasses and James doesn't stop him.

 

"James, who is Merlin's favorite singer?" Harry asks.

 

"John Denver, why?" 

 

Harry laughs humorlessly before drainng half of what he'd just poured into his glass in one go. 

 

"I couldn't remember when he asked me. He was quizzing me before we left for Cambodia because Eggsy thought I hadn't fully regained my memories or was otherwise not in my right mind," Harry explains. "He was right, of course, just not in the way he'd imagined. The three of us set out for Cambodia. While we were approaching our destination, Eggsy stepped on a landmine. Merlin fed us a line about some spray which would hold the landmine long enough for us to flee the blast radius and of course we believed him."

 

Harry sips again at his glass and James thinks he might very well empty it, but Harry seems to think better of it at the last moment.

 

"It held the mine just long enough for him to throw Eggsy off and for him to take his place. He gave us the chance to proceed and gain access to the enemy's base of operations," Harry said. His hand tightens on his glass. "He was singing. To attract the guards to him, to take out as many as possible. But the sound of it... stirred something. I found myself thinking that he _knows_ I hate John Denver, but I wasn't sure why. Then the explosion came and the singing ceased and... I was bombarded by all these details that my mind had omitted about Merlin."

 

Harry does finish off his glass then. James wonders if he should stop him when Harry wastes no time in refilling it, but can't seem to bring himself to stop him. Harry's in pain. A pain that James understands more than he would like. James is surprised he himself hasn't drank himself into a stupor yet, if he's being honest. If it dulls that pain, even a fraction, James won't deny Harry that right. He does, however, decline to have his own refilled.

 

"I still can't believe it. That I could ever forget him. How could I remember every detail of my life and somehow manage to leave out the most important one of all?" Harry wonders aloud. His voice wavers unsteadily, threatening to allow emotion to overcome his self constructed barriers, like a seawall beginning to crumble against the constant barrage of the mighty ocean before it. "I saluted him and told him it had been an honor to work with him. That is his last image of me."

 

"Harry," James says gently, when it's clear the man can't continue. "That's not your fault. You can't blame yourself for that. You were shot in the _face_ for God's sake, it's a miracle you even lived."

 

"It doesn't make it alright. Any of it," Harry replies morosely. "I should have remembered. Merlin didn't deserve to be forgotten that way. It's hardly any surprise he was so at peace with blowing himself to Kingdom Come when I'd made it clear how little importance our relationship held to me."

 

"That's not true at all," James says firmly. "Merlin would never think that of you. Ever. He'd've jumped on that mine whether you remembered or not because the silly bastard loves you and that boy more than life itself."

 

"Which is precisely why it's unforgivable for me to have forgotten him," Harry laments. "It took thinking he was dead for me to remember. And his... his wretched singing..."

 

James jostles him lightly. "You say 'wretched' but I know you adored it."

 

The statement tears a quick bark of a laugh out of him, waterlogged though it may be. "I did. I always did. Even if I hated those bloody records, I loved hearing his voice."

 

James stares down into his glass. "We should've been there."

 

Perhaps if they had, Merlin wouldn't have had to do what he'd done. Or stepped into the field in the first place. They'd avoided the shop, thinking it was the first place their enemies would be looking for them, not considering it might be the first place friends might look for them as well. They just assumed everyone knew better. Of course, Eggsy would be the one to show up there and Merlin _would_ be the one to figure out one of them would be fool enough to. If only they'd at least driven by...

 

"Don't even start," Harry says sharply, the statement tearing him out of his reverie. "You were in no position."

 

"I just think if we had at least driven through the area, we might have seen one of them," James sighs. "Then Merlin might not've been hurt. Martin might not've been..."

 

Harry studies him intently. He can feel the older man's gaze on him even if he isn't looking at him.

 

"None of it should've turned out this way," James continues. "I should've never left him up on that bridge. I should've just... I shouldn't have let him stop me from taking the shot. I could've made it. I _know_ I could. I just..."

 

He grinds his teeth, anger drawing his muscles taut as he thinks back on it all. This time he doesn't stop Harry from refilling his glass.

 

"I was _afraid_ ," James says with a disgusted laugh. "That I might not be as good as I once was. That I _could_ miss. And even after we watched him fall into the Thames, it was my _niece_ who had to get _me_ under control. She took complete charge of the situation and I was... useless. I've been useless ever since I came back, Harry, you've no idea what I put them all through. Some of the things I've said... I called Martin a sociopath. Did you know that? When I found out he'd nominated Roxanne for my title I couldn't... I don't even know what I was thinking. But the the point is I've made life hell for him every step of the way and when he needed me, I was fucking _useless_."

 

"I doubt very much that Martin considered having you back with him to be hell," Harry says quietly.

 

"And just how would you know?" James snaps at him. "We haven't seen you in two years!"

 

Anger breaks and gives way to immediate regret as his eyes rise quickly to Harry's face. But Harry doesn't seem bothered by it. He doesn't look hurt or angry... just sad. That's almost worse somehow. Here James had just been talking about how he'd put everyone through so much grief and without meaning to, he'd given Harry a perfect example.

 

"I'm sorry, Harry, that was - "

 

"I don't want you to apologize," Harry says, cutting him off. "Ever. James, you're not useless. We've all been in enemy hands before but none of us for as long as you were. That's the second longest any Kingsman agent has ever been held by an enemy and I know for a fact that they never broke you the way they wished to. I know you never said a word against any of us. Do you know what kind of fortitude that requires?"

 

"Stop trying to build me up, I don't want to hear it," James says, looking away from him.

 

He's startled when Harry grabs two fistfuls of his shirt - his glass set aside - and forces James to look at him. Looking into his lone eye, James can see that _now_ Harry is angry.

 

"James Spencer don't you _dare_ look away from me when I am speaking to you," Harry growls. "What Valentine put you through was unimaginable. None of us can ever know what that was like. You can't just wave a wand and discount nearly a year of physical and psychological abuse. Because that is what it was, James. Abuse. Torture. And like the scars left on your body, your mind will have them as well and I know for a _fact_ that those do not heal nearly as quickly. Sometimes they never truly heal at all. You can't expect to be the same simply because you made it out. I don't care if it's been two years or two _hundred_ , you can't be so impatient with yourself. You're trying to get better and that's nothing to apologize for. You'll have missteps and setbacks; this is one of them. But I won't have you torturing yourself over _any_ of this. _Do I make myself clear_?"

 

James hangs his head. It hurts. It hurts too much to hear him say those things. It's so much like what all of them have said to him. No matter what he's said or done, they do nothing but support him. They remain nothing but gentle.

 

"Why can't you just be angry with me?" James asks, his voice hardly above a whisper.

 

He feels Harry's grip upon his shirt loosen until he's let go entirely. But not for good. For the second time that night, Harry pulls him in to a tight embrace, herding him close, and James hates the way he melts into it. He shouldn't need this as much as he does.

 

"Because I care far too much about you to be so thoughtless, James."

 

"Why do you have to be this way? You're always... such a twat about doing what I ask," James says tearily into his shoulder. "Lord, I hate you."

 

Harry laughs. "I hate you, too," he says fondly.

 

Seconds turn into minutes and minutes soon turn into an hour. Harry hasn't moved, seemingly content to relax back against the sofa with James resting on his shoulder. James is on the razor's edge of sleep and he knows he's got a few moments at best, given that by the sound of Harry's breathing he's not far off either. He doesn't want to sleep just yet.

 

"Harry?"

 

"Mm?"

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"It's alright."

 

"But it isn't."

 

"Then I forgive you."

 

"... Harry?"

 

"Mm?"

 

"I don't hate you."

 

"... I know, James. I know."

 

 

* * *

 

Roxy finds them in the library hours later, a mess of long limbs sprawled on the sofa, the fire burnt down to glowing embers. The two of them appear to be fast asleep. James has his head pillowed on Harry's shoulder and Harry's head lies tilted to the side, resting against James's and setting his glasses askew. She should wake them to get them moving towards a proper bed, she thinks, but seeing the peaceful expression on her uncle's face gives her pause. It's the first restful sleep he's had in days and judging by the dark circles beneath Harry's eyes, it's likely equally as true for him.

 

Instead, she slips out quietly, only to return with an armful of blankets. Doing her best not to disturb them, Roxy carefully drapes the blankets over the two sleeping men. It's just as she's drawing back that she freezes, finding Harry's lone eye open and focused on her. Slowly, he raises a hand, pressing his index finger to his lips; a silent request for her not to wake James.

 

Even now, Harry is looking after them, molding himself to the role of Arthur effortlessly. Though from the stories her uncles have told her, the title has nothing to do with that. Roxy nods without a word, reaching into her pocket and offering him what she pulls out of it.

 

His eye patch.

 

He reaches up and takes it from her hand, a small smile on his face. Roxy smiles back. She backs away, turning towards the door and making her way across the room. By the time the door closes behind her, Harry's glasses rest on the table beside the sofa and shortly after, he's asleep once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please meet two more of me and lywinis's babies:
> 
>  
> 
> [Agent Lamb - Nashoba "Nasha" Roux](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/twilightsaga/images/3/34/Jacket2-julia_jones-022s2.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20110702225258)
> 
>  
> 
> [Agent Swan - Ethan Spencer](https://d26oc3sg82pgk3.cloudfront.net/files/media/uploads/zinnia/Nick_Braun_0224_Barry_Wetcher.jpg.644x432_q100.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> and
> 
>  
> 
> [Franklin - Teagan Fitzpatrick](http://kissthemgoodbye.net/movie/albums/Interstellar/intrslr_90951.jpg)


	9. still waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I hope when you think of me years down the line  
> You can't find one good thing to say  
> And I'd hope that if I found the strength to walk out  
> You'd stay the hell out of my way

As it turns out, Tequila is actually something of a decent pilot Roxy had found as he'd flown the four of them back to England for their respective errands. Eggsy, as she'd come to understand is here to retrieve something of Merlin's; some sort of lock box  the contents of which are both very personal and very private. She herself is here for... family reasons. Admittedly, she still feels a tad guilty about lying to their recently promoted Arthur, but she knows she wouldn't have been permitted to come here otherwise.

 

"You lied to Harry?" Eggsy asks, looking as though he's already anticipating the punishment for such an action and not liking what comes to mind. "Look, Rox  I know Percy has some issues with his parents, but lying to Harry isn't something I'd consider a smart move."

 

Roxy blows out a harsh breath. "Short of stealing a jet, they wouldn't have let me come here otherwise."

 

"It can't be that bad," Eggsy insists.

 

Roxy shakes her head. "Eggsy, you didn't see my uncle when I brought it up. He was furious at the mere mention of them."

 

"James is bound to be a bit biased though, ain't he?" Eggsy points out.

 

"Maybe," Roxy admits quietly. "Even still, I don't think I've ever seen that look on his face. If I had given Arthur my true reason for coming, I'm sure he and Merlin would've given me a stern talking to that I frankly don't have time for."

 

Eggsy frowns, seemingly digesting this bit of information. Maybe it all sounds a bit ridiculous to him. Maybe it is. But no matter what it is or sounds like, she's firm in her convictions. Despite having known Martin since she was very small, Roxy knows very little about his life before Kingsman. As far as Martin seems to be concerned, his life began at eighteen years of age and getting him to talk about any of this is akin to wringing blood from a stone. The only clues she has come in the form of photographs; she'd unintentionally stumbled upon a small photo album tucked away in the back of James's closet when she'd been sorting through his things after he'd seemingly died.

 

Although she's not certain what it was doing in James's belongings rather than Martin's, she hadn't questioned it at the time. The album isn't terribly thick and that only served to make the contents all the more melancholy. The photos contained within it are all of Martin; often with other people, but undoubtedly the album is focused on him. Roxy knows Martin to be a very serious man, reserved in his emotions and in expressing them, but despite this, the fact that she can't seem to find a single photo of him smiling prior to joining Kingsman is... disheartening. She's sure she's never seen such a serious looking little boy. Even in photos where one would think he would be proud and glowing with satisfaction - awards, trophies, ribbons, moments where he was being lauded for his accomplishments - Martin remains as straight faced as ever, his expression stoic and unfeeling regardless of the occasion.

 

In a very private and decidedly vulnerable moment after James's death, Martin had said that without having met James (and subsequently Harry, Merlin and Roxy), he would have grown to be a very different man. She wonders if that has anything to do with the serious little boy in the photographs. His parents are rarely shown in these photos, but when they are, Roxy can begin to see why Martin is the way he is. The pair are as frigid as can be, as unsmiling as their son and somehow managing to seem ten times as unapproachable. Martin is practically a carbon copy of his father from his dark eyes and hair, to the slope of his nose, straight down to his choice of dress. The couple are distant, never making any sort of physical contact with their son, careful to keep a set distance between him and themselves. All in all, not the picture of a happy family.

 

It's the sort of thing that makes her question whether coming here is truly wise. But she can't help but think she owes it to Martin to at least try. If there is anything to be salvaged from the broken relationship he shares with his parents, now is the time to make the attempt.

 

"Well, whatever happens, I've got your back," Eggsy decides, bumping shoulders with her, a grin making itself at home on his face.

 

"Because I'm da best?" Roxy asks, grinning back.

 

"Because ur da best," Eggsy replies with a wink.

 

Their moment is interrupted as the chattering of Tequila and Lamb draws closer. Champ and Adams had insisted on sending along an agent from both their organizations, feeling that Kingsman was something of a target these days and that sending two of its remaining agents out by themselves would be a terribly irresponsible choice. Roxy can understand that. She can respect it. Still, having the two of them along for some very personal errands feels decidedly intrusive.

 

"So what exactly is the big deal about all this?" Lamb asks, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her leather jacket. "The whole cloak and dagger of this thing is a little much even for us."

 

"Coming here to meet with my uncle's parents is something I was expressly forbidden to do," Roxy says, raising an eyebrow. "I think that speaks for itself."

 

Lamb rolls her eyes. "Okay but why?"

 

"They're not exactly on good terms," Roxy admits with a faint shrug of her shoulders. "That's all I know."

 

Tequila gives Lamb a light shove. "Come on, like we don't know all about that."

 

"Shove it, kemosabe," Lamb snorts, flipping the brim of his hat.

 

As much as Roxy might not want them along for this particular adventure, it's nothing against them personally. She's found herself taking a shine to the younger agents of their sister organizations. Lamb and Tequila in particular are... an interesting duo. There's a playfulness to their dynamic that denotes a long-standing relationship, the air to which is like that of siblings. Lamb had fed her a line about teenage runaways meeting in the circus, but given the young woman's penchant for mischief, Roxy's not sure how much of that she can believe. She'd been surprised that Lamb's partner Swan had opted to remain behind, but apparently he'd had some business with James to attend to. What that business is remains anyone's guess, as even Lamb appears to have been left in the dark (something she seems particularly unhappy about).

 

The four of them stand at the gate of a manor which can only be described as foreboding. It's not as though there are gargoyles on the parapets and bats in the belfry, but the property is decidedly lacking in warmth. There are shrubs surrounding the grounds, but you'd be hard pressed to find anything flowering in the area. An uninviting aura radiates outward from the manor, despite it's plainness.

 

"We'll just wait out here I guess," Tequila says, peering through the imposing black iron gate. "Something tells me we're not gonna be much help if you're looking to convince these people to see your buddy."

 

"Yeah, I think the fewer people we have in there, the better," Eggsy agrees. "I get the feeling it's gonna be hard enough as it is."

 

Roxy silently agrees with him, even as she presses down on the buzzer. Hardly a moment passes before they hear someone addressing them, the voice tinny as it emits from the mounted speaker.

 

"May I help you?" 

 

"Yes, we're here to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough," Roxy says, her tone unyielding, unwilling to be turned away.

 

"Do you have an appointment?"

 

"No. It's regarding their son," Roxy says. "Something that can't wait."

 

"Your name?"

 

"Roxanne Morton. And this is my colleague, Eggsy Unwin."

 

"...one moment, please."

 

Roxy shares a look with Eggsy, wondering if they'll be turned away at the gate. She has no intention of allowing that to happen. They'll see her whether they wish to or not. Just as she's thinking this, however, there's an audible click and the gate begins to swing open, followed by the same tinny voice through the speaker.

 

"You may proceed to the main entrance. An attendant will be with you shortly."

 

"Should we break in if we don't hear from you in thirty minutes?" Lamb asks, peering down the long driveway suspiciously.

 

"I'm pretty sure we'll be able to handle it, Eggsy assures her.

 

"All the same, can't be too careful. 'specially not these days," Tequila reasons.

 

"One hour," Roxy reasons. "I don't think convincing them will be easy, but if an hour's gone by and we haven't checked in, then you can look into it."

 

"Alright, sounds like a plan," Lamb says with a nod. "Good luck."

 

"We'll just be nosing around out here," Tequila adds. "Give us a holler if things start to get messy."

 

Walking down the long drive, the manor looking  before them, Roxy sincerely hopes it won't come to that.

 

 

* * *

 

Eggsy wills himself to remain still, fighting the urge to get up and pace. The interior of the manor is very ordinary, plain and minimalist, but it still makes him uneasy for reasons he can't quite pin down. Maybe it's the quiet. Or the distinct lack of family photos; any photos, really. 

 

They'd been waiting in this parlor for the past twenty minutes and in contrast to his restlessness, Roxy sits beside him as still as stone. There's a look of grim determination on her face that leads him to believe this means more to her than she'd let on. Of course he knows how much his friend loves her uncle - loves both her uncles - but why she's so determined to mend a relationship that's been broken for longer than they've been alive is something he can't begin to guess at.

 

The appearance of a maid at the doorway take his attention away from his speculation. She gestures towards the hall behind her.

 

"If you'll follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough will see you now."

 

Roxy is up and moving before Eggsy can even think to nod. Following their guide through the halls, Eggsy suddenly wonders if Roxy is just a bit too committed to this. Not that he thinks there's anything wrong with that she's doing, rather that she's so determined to get what she wants from this that he's worried she's not prepared for the possibility that she just might not be able to fix it. 

 

They're lead to a large study, the double doors pulled open for them by two waiting attendants. The sight that greets them is a large, ornate wooden desk in the center of the room. Sitting behind this, his hands folded neatly on the blotter, is a tall, lean man. He's dressed in black, his salt and pepper hair parted neatly at the side and sharp, dark eyes boring into them from behind half-moon spectacles. Eggsy's struck by just how much Martin takes after his father; to the point of very nearly being a carbon copy. Standing just behind him at the window, is who Eggsy assumes is the man's wife. She's every bit as imposing as her husband; talk, dark and lean. A string of pearls rests neatly at the base of a long, slim neck and her dark eyes watch them with every bit the predatory nature of her husband's. Between her black dress and her dark hair trimmed in hard, straight lines, she cuts a truly intimidating figure.

 

Looking at the two, Eggsy thinks he's beginning to understand why Martin is... well, Martin. If Percival is stoic, his parents are easily ten times more so; something which Eggsy would have told you was not possible a mere five minutes ago. Despite having agreed to see them, Eggsy can feel the unwelcoming aura radiating off of the Gainsboroughs in waves, telling him they don't wish for the two Knights to be here.

 

"I was informed you had information you wished to discuss regarding our son," Mr. Gainsborough says without preamble.

 

"Yes," Roxy affirms, taking the seat offered to her by the maid. "Your son Martin is my uncle. Recently he... had an accident. I understand that your relationship has been strained for quite a long time now, but I thought you should know. Currently he's being cared for in the United States, but he's been in a coma since the accident. Due to the severity of  his injuries, we're unsure sure if he'll ever wake and with that being the case, I thought you might wish to see him."

 

It's a difficult truth for Roxy to face, Eggsy knows. It's better than Martin having died, but the trade-off has been hard for them to handle. Namely, the uncertainty of it. The constant wondering. Of course they all want to believe he'll wake up but when it comes down to it, they just don't know. Not Whiskey or Warren or even Morgana can say. Roxy had wondered aloud the other day, if Martin would hate them for keeping him like this, hanging on the fragile hope that only 'maybe someday' can provide. Eggsy doesn't think Martin could ever hate her. But he wonders if Martin might resent that kind of decision. He really doesn't know Martin all that well; he doesn't even know the man takes his tea, never mind how he feels about being kept on life support.

 

Martin's parents, however, don't seem to suffer the same difficulties as Roxy. Their collective gaze remains as impassive as when Roxy and Eggsy had walked in. If anything, Eggsy swears he sees Mr. Gainsborough's eyes harden with her words.

 

"We do not have a son by that name," he informs them.

 

Roxy draws a deep breath, "I understand your relationship has been strained but - "

 

"We do not have a son by that name," Mrs. Gainsborough interrupts her sharply, echoing her husband's sentiment.

 

"He nearly died. He's your son," Roxy says heatedly. "How can you not care about what happens to him? Can't you put your relation to him before your pride when it's a matter of life and death?"

 

"Ms. Morton, if you came here thinking you could appeal to our emotions as parents, you thought wrong," Mr. Gainsborough says coolly. "I will say this once more so that I am perfectly clear: that man is not our son. Do you understand?"

 

"Of course I don't understand!" Roxy explodes, on her feet with her hands balled into angry fists. "I don't understand how anyone can be so bitter that they refuse to even acknowledge their son when he's lying in a hospital bed half a world away. We lost him four times. Four! And it's only thanks to the fact that we had the best medical personnel available that we didn't lose him for good! Is a foolish disagreement over a job that much more important to you? How can you live with yourselves?"

 

Eggsy can see that Roxy is getting nowhere. No matter how much she may wish to mend what's broken, there are some relationships which can't be fixed. This is one of them. Again he finds himself wondering why his friend is pushing herself so hard to change the minds of people who clearly don't give a damn about their son. Is there some other reason apart from feeling some sort of familial obligation to her uncle? As much as she may hate to admit it, James's warning had been with good reason. He'd been right about one thing at least: these people... they're not people.

 

"I'm curious as to why you seem so invested in the matter," Mrs. Gainsborough tells her, seemingly unfazed by Roxy's outburst. "There's hardly anything for you to gain from it."

 

Roxy says nothing at first, staring at the couple as though they were alien, something completely foreign and impossible to understand. She may be silent, her expression carefully controlled, but Eggsy knows her well enough to be able to detect the mounting fury brewing inside of her.

 

"Nothing to gain," she echoes. "I have everything to gain. If doing this could help him or... or heal him in any way, then I have everything to gain."

 

"Regardless," Mr. Gainsborough says smoothly, "I believe we have made our stance on the matter quite clear. Therefore there is nothing left for us to discuss. You will be escorted off the grounds by my staff and refrain from any further contact with anyone in this household regarding that man. As far as you are concerned, we do not have a son. No accident or injury will change that fact and should you choose to contact us again, there will be consequences of the most dire sort imaginable."

 

"Yeah, well, you won't have to worry about us contacting you again," Eggsy declares, rising from his seat. He places a hand on Roxy's arm, hoping to ground her in some way. It's clear to him that she's doing everything she can to restrain herself. "We came here for her uncle's sake and since you're clearly the last thing anyone needs, you can go right ahead and get fucked."

 

The older man regards Eggsy with the same impassive gaze, seemingly unbothered by his proclamation and the rather rude hand gesture which had accompanied it. Mr. Gainsborough inclines his head, nodding towards the maid just behind Eggsy and Roxy.

 

"The staff will see you out now," Mr. Gainsborough says. "Good day."

 

Eggsy half expects Roxy to say something, to refuse to move until she's had her say. Instead, she turns on her heel and follows the waiting maid to the door. With that, Eggsy follows after her, worried by her stony expression and her silence far more than he's bothered by the Gainsboroughs' apparent lack of empathy for their son. Roxy remains as silent as the grave as they exit the manor and proceed down the long drive towards the gate through which they'd entered the grounds.

 

He can tell she's angry, furious with the outcome of their errand, but perhaps more so with the fact that James had been right. Coming here had been a waste of time. Yet he knows she never would have been satisfied unless she tried, even if she's made herself unhappier in the process. Roxy's just that way, never one to call it a day until she's tried her hand at it.

 

"Rox, you alright?" Eggsy asks as they slowly walk side by side down the drive.

 

"I hope they regret it," Roxy says, fury in her words despite the quiet of her voice. "I hope they see the day where they look back on this and regret their choices. But I know they won't and that's the worst part of it. My uncle is a good man and he..."

 

He can see the way she chokes on her words, swallowing thickly to find her voice past them. It's been hard on her. These past two years have been as much a struggle for her as they have been for him, even if it's been in different ways. Roxy's devotion to her uncles is something that Eggsy has always both admired and respected. It wasn't until after James had been recovered that she'd even hinted at their relation and though he'd always felt the title of Lancelot was rightfully hers, that knowledge just confirmed it.

 

Finding out the former Lancelot was her uncle, in addition to the fact that Percival was more than her mentor, created cascading layers of pain to the events of the past few years. James had finally seemed to be coming back to his old self, she had said, only for Martin to fall to an unknown enemy. Eggsy's glad he can at least say that Merlin had woken; his physical therapy and adjusting to him new disability will be a long and painful process, but Merlin's alive and awake and mending. Martin is currently a different story and Eggsy worries how this waiting game is affecting Roxy, given that she now has to worry after both her uncles and Merlin besides.

 

"He deserves better and I know coming here was something I did more for myself than for him," Roxy says, her jaw set firmly as she stubbornly refused to cry. "I just wanted to feel as though I did something. And I thought, you know, as much as my parents and I may argue, I'd like to think that no matter how bitter our fighting could be, if I were in his place, they would still come. I wanted to think that for him as well. I wanted to think that his parents loved him underneath it all, but... they don't. They don't care for him at all."

 

Eggsy adjusts his stride, stepping closer alongside Roxy so that their shoulders are pressed together as they walk. "Yeah, well, like I said: fuck 'em."

 

Roxy laughs at that, sniffling and wiping at her eyes to clear any tears before they have a chance to fall.

 

"Besides, he's got you and James, yeah? Plus Harry and Merlin and all of us," Eggsy reminds her. "Seems he's with the people he wants to be with, if you ask me. But I still don't think it was wrong of you to come. You love him, it only makes sense you'd want to do something for him now. James might be a bit peeved, but I think Percy will appreciate it once he's awake."

 

She bumps back into him, clearly appreciative of what he's trying to do. Not that Eggsy expects her to come bouncing back as right as rain, but if she looks marginally less upset than she had been a moment ago then he considers it a job well done. 

 

"Judging by your faces, I'm gonna say it didn't go all that well," Tequila says when Eggsy and Roxy rejoin them outside the walls of the manor grounds.

 

"They were even worse than I expected," Eggsy declares. "And I was expecting the worst."

 

"They won't be looking to see my uncle," Roxy says, shaking her head. "Which, after meeting them, I can honestly say is just as well."

 

"Excuse me!"

 

Eggsy perks like a hunting dog at the call, but more so at the look on Roxy's face when she turns to meet whoever had made it. Once Eggsy turns to look at what she's seeing, he can understand why. Walking briskly down the sidewalk towards them is an almost exact copy of Martin, minus twenty years or so. The dark haired young man stalks towards them with a serious face, looking for all the world as though he's about to sternly lecture them for jay-walking or something equally as pedantic. As he comes up on them, Eggsy sees that unlike Martin's dark eyes, this boy bears a bright, vivacious set of blue. They bore into Eggsy, almost as though searching for something, before zeroing in on Roxy. As he comes to a halt before her, the strange young man thrusts a hand out.

 

"Michael Gainsborough," he announces himself. "Though I would prefer if you called me 'Mickey.'"

 

Slowly, almost as though stunned, Roxy reaches out to shake the proffered hand. "Roxy Morton. And... my friends: Eggsy Unwin, Nasha Roux and Lee Stetson."

 

The young man, Mickey apparently, nods firmly at each of them before returning his gaze to Roxy. "I heard you speaking to my parents about their son. Someone named Martin. Is that true?"

 

"Your parents?" Eggsy blurts.

 

Mickey nods. "Yes. Which would mean, if you're being truthful, that this man Martin is my brother. But you haven't answered my question."

 

"Yes. Yes, it's true," Roxy says, shaking her head as though to rouse herself from a stupor. "But you're saying you don't know him?"

 

"Well I highly doubt he knows about me either," Mickey answers. "I've had my suspicions that there was someone else before me, but my parents have always staunchly denied it. You said he's had an accident, though. What sort of accident?"

 

"...he fell from a bridge," Roxy says. Not a lie, Eggsy notes, just not the whole truth either. "He's been terribly injured and he's currently in a coma, which is why we came to meet with his parents."

 

"I see," Mickey answers, absorbing this information and taking only a moment to process it. "And just what is your relationship to him that you should come to seek out my parents on his behalf?"

 

"He's my uncle," Roxy says resolutely. "As well as a colleague of myself and Eggsy."

 

"Your uncle through marriage?" Mickey fishes, as though uncertain if further relatives will be popping up out of the woodwork.

 

"Essentially," Roxy says. She lifts her chin proudly. "He's engaged to my biological uncle."

 

Mickey's eyebrows rise at her words. "A homosexual."

 

"That's right," Eggsy affirms, folding his arms over his chest.

 

If this little shit wants to make something of it, oh, Eggsy's more than happy to make something of it. He stands beside Roxy, silently daring the other man to say something. Judging from the hard stance that Tequila and Lamb have adopted beside him, he's not alone in that. Instead, Mickey just hums curiously, tilting his head to the side like an inquisitive puppy.

 

"Interesting," he notes. "I believe I'm beginning to see where the strained relationship you referred to springs from. And he's in America, you said?"

 

"Yes," Roxy says, still appearing hesitant to trust him too much. "He's being looked after by my uncle and our physician."

 

Mickey hums again. He crosses his arms, one hand coming up to stroke his chin as his brows draw together in deep thought. The action is so uncannily like Martin that Eggsy has to remind himself that they don't know this young man; he can't trust him just because he looks or sounds or acts like Martin does.

 

"I'd like to see him," Mickey declares after moments of contemplation. "I know you're hedging around the specifics purposely and whatever reasons you have for doing so are not my concern. If he's my brother then I would like to know him."

 

"Sure your parents will approve?" Lamb asks with a snort.

 

"I don't particularly care what they think," Mickey says easily. "They've had ample opportunity to tell me the truth and chose not to. They've forfeit their right to weigh in on the matter."

 

Well, that's certainly a surprise. Not a bad one, but a surprise all the same. Eggsy looks to Roxy, hoping to gauge her reaction, only to find she looks about as conflicted as he feels. Brother or not, you can't just invite someone over to your super secret spy organization. Eggsy knows that if he's asking to see Martin, they don't have a right to keep Mickey from him. But how exactly do they go about this? Thankfully, at least Roxy seems to have a general heading in mind.

 

"Before we discuss the matter any further, let me make a phone call," Roxy says.

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin would like to say it's nice to get out and stretch his legs, but... well. Still, just having been allowed outside the Statesman compound had been a blessing. When Harry had asked him to come survey their new grounds in Scotland, Merlin couldn't agree fast enough.

 

Presently, seated outside a familiar cafe in England, he's enjoying the feeling of the sun on his face and Harry's fingers idly stroking the back of his hand. It had been a bit... awkward at first. Despite having been in love with one another for thirty-four years, this is the first time they've been able to express it freely. It's like courting each other for the first time because in many ways it is. There had never been any dates, no anniversary dinners, no surprise bouquets because you just felt like it. This is unfamiliar territory for both of them.

 

But that doesn't mean it's in a bad way. As much as he may regret it had taken them this long, it doesn't take away from the fact that this is fresh and new and exciting. Despite three decades of aging, Harry seems to him to be every bit the charming young man he remembers from Barcelona.

 

"You're quiet," Harry notes. "Are you tired?"

 

"Only just a bit," Merlin responds, knowing full well by this point that lying to Harry will only make things more difficult. He sighs contentedly. "I'm just enjoying being out in the sun. And being here with you."

 

Harry smiles at him, the warmth in his expression putting the sun to shame. As guilty as Harry continues to feel over everything that had occurred in the past few weeks, it's good to see him genuinely happy. It's a happiness Merlin shares.

 

"I'm glad you approve of the grounds," Harry tells him. "I wanted to be sure you did before we went any further."

 

Merlin chuckles at that. "You hardly need my approval to move forward, Harry."

 

"Not true," Harry protests. "I've asked you share your life with me. There is nothing I can do to move forward now unless I know you are with me in it."

 

Merlin feels himself growing hot under the collar. A reflexive reaction, he knows, but there's simply something about hearing Harry say all of these things in public which does this to him. He turns his hand upwards, letting Harry's fingertips trail along his palm and watching the paths they take along his lifeline.

 

"Well, in that case, I'm with you," Merlin tells him. "It's a lovely plot of land. Enough to build our new headquarters as well as have plenty of room afterward for the pups to stretch their legs."

 

"The most important feature," Harry says nodding seriously.

 

"Oh yes," Merlin agrees. "Terribly important."

 

The two of them manage to keep straight faces for another ten seconds before each breaking out in wide grins. This sort of easy, uninhibited time spent with each other feels like it's doing more for Merlin than weeks of physical therapy had. He has Harry back. His Harry. And being able to do something as simple as have lunch together without fear of reprisal makes his heart so full it could nearly burst.

 

It hasn't been an easy road by any means. Finally arriving at this point had cost them, but ultimately, Merlin considers it a price well paid. True, he may occasionally be frustrated with and resentful of his new disability, but to have Harry whole and healthy beside him he would gladly give as many parts of himself as were required. If he had to be taken apart piece by piece, until all that remained of him was a heart for Harry to hold, he would still consider it an even trade. 

 

And he knows Harry feels the same. There's no length they wouldn't go for one another, no distance too great for them to cross. It's both beautiful and terrifying; when there's no limit to how far you'll go, you tend to find yourself in some truly dire straights. 

 

"You promise you'll tell me if it all gets to be too much," Harry affirms.

 

"I've already told you, I'm perfectly fine," Merlin reassures him. "The fresh air is doing me good."

 

"I don't just mean today," Harry presses.

 

His fingertips glide across Merlin's wrist, lingering over his pulse point. Merlin sighs, but won't argue with Harry on the matter. He understands. Although he's been injured in the field before, this is undoubtedly the worst of all of them. Predictably, Harry's concern for him has kicked into overdrive, terrified by the close call that had been far closer than all the others. And so Merlin reminds himself to be patient. Harry's worries are reasonable, he knows. He does have a slight bit of a problem with overworking himself.

 

"I won't push my luck," Merlin promises him. "But I do expect you to trust me when I tell you I'm alright."

 

"Of course," Harry replies. 

 

Merlin has the vague feeling that these are promises both of them will be breaking, but it's simply in their nature. Of course they'll both make the effort, but history has shown them to be consistent violators of things of this nature. For now though, Merlin isn't overly concerned. He's not going to ruin one of the first outings he's had since Cambodia and perhaps the first thing he might call a lunch date with Harry in... well, ever, really.

 

When Harry's broad shoulders stiffen, regaining that ounce of proper posture he had dared drop before Merlin, it's obvious that business has reared its ugly head. Merlin waits patiently, stirring cream into his coffee as Harry lightly touches his fingertips to the frames of his spectacles.

 

"Good afternoon, Lancelot," Harry greets. "I take it you've finished with your visit?"

 

Harry doesn't specifically mention who she's visiting. She had made a request to visit her mother, but Harry and Merlin both knew who she'd really come here to see. Much as they considered it a futile effort, neither of them would try to stop her, knowing it would be best to allow her to see for herself.

 

Curiously, Harry remains silent for the next thirty seconds or so, any good humor having been wiped from his face. Merlin's spoon pauses in its circular journey, the silence arousing his curiosity.

 

"...I see," Harry says at length, his expression contemplative  "And he's requested to see Percival?"

 

That grabs Merlin's attention. He'd assumed it was a forgone conclusion that Martin's parents wouldn't be seeking to mend the rift between them in this lifetime or any other. But had Roxy been right after all? Had she somehow managed to convince them to change their minds?

 

"Yes, rendezvous with us here," Harry says. "Before we make any decisions, I'd like to meet with him face-to-face. Yes... Yes... Very good, Lancelot, we'll be seated outside when you arrive."

 

Merlin taps his spoon on the rim of his glass, his eyes trained on Harry as he sets it on the provided saucer. Harry seems to be deep in thought over whatever Roxy had told him, his gaze distant as he stares straight ahead of him. Merlin reaches over, resting his hand on his fiancé's.

 

"Harry? Is everything alright?" Merlin asks, peering at him questioningly.

 

The contact combined with Merlin's words seems to pull him from his contemplation. He looks to Merlin, his gaze softening once more.

 

"Everything's fine, dove," Harry replies.

 

Merlin isn't convinced. "Something happened during Roxy's errand."

 

Harry nods. "I don't believe I need to tell you our assumption was correct regarding her true purpose for coming here. While she got the answer we'd predicted, in the process she found that Martin has a younger brother. One that wishes to see him."

 

"A brother?" Merlin echoes, eyebrows shooting above the rims of his spectacles.

 

"I don't believe Martin knows of him," Harry answers. "Not from what I gathered. Apparently this brother - Michael - had his suspicions about a sibling, but claims his parents denied having any other children."

 

"Well, that's... quite an interesting turn of events," Merlin says, leaning back in his wheelchair. "I suppose we were wrong saying this trip would be a waste of time for Roxy."

 

"Though I don't doubt James will still be quite cross," Harry notes.

 

"Undoubtedly," Merlin agrees. "Still, this is unusual."

 

"We've been dealt more unexpected hands before," Harry reminds him.

 

It's true, Merlin knows, but this is certainly strange in its own right. Martin rarely spoke of his home life prior to Kingsman, but the little he did share had left Merlin with the impression that the Gainsboroughs we're not the sort to welcome another bundle of joy with open arms. They hardly seemed to care for the one son they had, never mind another. James had established his opinion of Martin's parents many years ago. During an assignment where Martin appeared to have been killed in action, James had volunteered to inform his parents.

 

Merlin had never seen James in such a state as when he'd returned that day. A naturally gregarious personality, it had been almost frightening to see him so consumed with rage. Merlin still doesn't know to this day what they'd said to James, only that it amounted to the fact that they couldn't care less whether Martin lived or died. Thankfully they were mistaken in believing they'd lost Percival, but ever since then, James has descended into a foul mood whenever Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough are mentioned.

 

For them to have had another child... It hardly makes sense.

 

"Ah, here they are," Harry remarks, his gaze traveling to Merlin's right.

 

Merlin turns his head to be greeted by the sight of Eggsy and Roxy rounding the corner of the café and drawing towards them. Tequila and Lamb follow behind, with another boy just in front of them. For a moment, Merlin thinks to pinch himself. The boy looks every bit like the one who'd stood before Merlin a quarter of a century ago, eying the dog cages with apprehension as he'd asked if choosing a pup was absolutely necessary to the trials.

 

He looks so very much like Martin that it brings a sudden weight of grief to his chest. Though he knows it's ridiculous to do so, Merlin feels a certain sense of guilt to have woken when Martin hasn't. It's nothing he can impact or influence in any way, but it still doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel right seeing James slipping backward from where he'd worked so hard to recover to anymore than it does seeing Roxy going through book after book in her visits to Martin's room.

 

But right this second, he knows that's not something that can be at the forefront of his mind. This boy will want answers and Merlin needs to be focused in order to make sure he's giving the right ones. 

 

"Arthur, Merlin," Roxy greets with a nod of her head.

 

Harry inclines his head in a welcoming nod. "I see you've had yourselves an interesting morning."

 

"Yeah, if by 'interesting' you mean 'wasted our time talking to a pair of right dickheads,'" Eggsy snorts.

 

He seems to remember himself as he shoots a look to Martin's brother, perhaps wondering if the statement had offended him. Merlin finds himself amused by the fact that the boy merely offers a slight shrug of his shoulders in response, as though he couldn't care less. All the same, Harry casts a stern look at his protegé  reminding him to behave himself. Eggsy's actions are going to be under a great deal of scrutiny for the foreseeable future, just as the rest of them. They now have two sister organizations who will undoubtedly want to know exactly what sort of individuals they fill their ranks with and Harry means to make a good impression. Thankfully, Roxy had inherited Martin's sense of timing rather than James's.

 

"Mickey, this is the owner of the Kingsman tailor shop," Roxy says gesturing towards Harry and then himself. "As well as his fiancé, who is in charge of all technical aspects and on-the-job training."

 

"What she means to say is that he's the only reason the place is still running," Harry says with a smooth smile. Merlin shakes his head as Harry extends his hand towards the boy. "Harry Hart."

 

The boy - Mickey, as Roxy had referred to him - cocks his head to the side curiously, before slowly reaching out to shake Harry's hand. He seems to be studying Harry, trying to glean some particular bit of information from him.

 

"Not Arthur, then," Mickey fishes.

 

Harry huffs a laugh. "Yes, I do go by that as well. We assign these nicknames to our employees; keeps with the theme of the shop."

 

Mickey doesn't appear convinced, but doesn't press the issue. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hart. Michael Gainsborough; but I prefer 'Mickey.'"

 

"Mickey, then," Harry says, shaking the young man's hand before gesturing towards Merlin. "And my fiancé, whom you may call 'Merlin.' We all do."

 

Again that curious look. In many ways, he's precisely like Martin; quietly taking in the information he's giving while looking for further information on his own. But now that he's drawn closer, Merlin can see there is one very distinct difference. Martin has dark eyes, a deep brown that very nearly appears black at times, which he had inherited from his parents. Mickey, on the other hand, looks to him with eyes that are a bright, inquisitive blue. 

 

"Just 'Merlin,'" Mickey says, offering his hand. "I take it you enjoy your privacy."

 

Merlin shakes his hand warmly. "That I do."

 

"Please, everyone have a seat," Harry says, gesturing towards the table.

 

The group pulls chairs over from nearby tables, lining them up on the opposite side of the table. Whether consciously or not, the young agents put Mickey at the center of them, directly before Merlin and Harry. This doesn't seem to bother him, from what Merlin can see, as he sits and watches them patiently.

 

"Now, I'm sure you have - "

 

"Just a moment, Harry," Merlin interrupts, leaning forward and holding a hand out to stop him. Harry doesn't question Merlin's reasoning, just sits back and waits for him to proceed. With that, Merlin looks across the table at the group seated there. "Have any of you eaten?"

 

The question prompts an arched eyebrow from Mickey. Roxy does her best to smother a smile, but Eggsy doesn't bother to hide the wide grin on his face.

 

"Thank fuck, I'm starving," Tequila sighs.

 

Harry shoots Merlin a fond look full of good humor as he slides a menu across the table, opting to let them all order something before they get down to business. Interestingly, this seems to be what finally gets Mickey to feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps impatient is a better word, Merlin muses. He doesn't fidget, but there is a decided tension to his posture as the others look over the menu that hadn't been there previously. By the time the orders have been placed, he's leaning forward eagerly in his seat, propriety the only thing staying his tongue.

 

"Now, Roxy tells me you weren't aware Martin existed, but that you had your suspicions," Harry says, fingers steepled with his elbows propped up on the armrests of his chair. "Why is that?"

 

"Numerous reasons. The first time I wondered was when I noticed my place on the family tree tapestry appeared to be patched. When I asked about it, my father told me it was nothing. When I pressed him for an answer he told me a maid had had an accident with a candle and it needed to be mended," Mickey explains slowly. "At first it seemed to be a reasonable explanation, but..."

 

Merlin watches the boy frown, thinking that he must still be trying to process all of this. An hour ago, Martin never existed. Having that fact change has likely left him reevaluating his relationship with his parents.

 

"Once I noticed that, I began noticing other things. Little things. Things that people almost said or things they thought I couldn't see," Mickey tells them. "Eventually I began asking if they'd had another child before me. They denied it every time. It was the quickest way to draw my father's temper and I was punished whenever I asked. I thought perhaps this mysterious other child may have died in a way that was too painful for them to talk about. But to have almost no trace of him? To never mention him at all? It didn't seem to make any sense at all."

 

"I see," Harry says, his lone eye watching the blue eyed boy with quiet intensity. "You said almost no trace. What is it that you found?"

 

"A grave," Mickey tells him.

 

Roxy looks to him with some measure of alarm, but Merlin feels he may know what Mickey is about to tell them. Martin had been very uncomfortable choosing a dog during the Percival trials and had only later admitted why when Merlin had been bleeding out on their first mission together. He'd claimed the admission was just to keep Merlin awake and talking, but Merlin had always felt Martin had chosen to confide in him.

 

"I was exploring the grounds and found what looked like a rock being used as a headstone within the woods. I was curious, so I fetched a shovel and began to dig," Mickey says. "When I dug deep enough I came upon a folded tarp and inside were the remains of a small dog. With the remains, tucked in the folds of the tarp, was a note with pressed flowers inside. I reburied the dog but kept the note. When I asked my mother, she said it was an old hunting dog that had to be put down. But I knew she was lying. Father hates dogs. And what's more, the note wasn't in his handwriting. It was too unsteady, too crooked... Like a child's handwriting. My father repeated my mother's explanation. I never told them about the note."

 

That's precisely what Merlin had been expecting to hear.

 

"I can confirm that note was written by Martin," Merlin says. 

 

Harry shoots him an incredulous look and Merlin can hardly blame him. He and Harry share everything, but this is one of the few things Merlin had kept to himself. It had seemed to him to be a rather personal thing, something spoken to him in a moment of crisis which bore a certain level of vulnerability. He hadn't felt comfortable repeating it, even to Harry.

 

"When I was injured in '92, Martin told me he'd briefly kept a dog in secret as a child," Merlin explains. "When his father found out, he brought Martin and the dog deep into the woods on their property and ordered him to shoot the dog. When Martin couldn't, his father shot the dog himself. He then had Martin dig a grave and bury the dog. Your father wouldn't have known about the note, Mickey. Martin returned and added that as well as the marker the following week when his father was away on business."

 

"Okay, that's kinda fucked up," Lamb chimes in.

 

Harry makes a thoughtful noise of agreement. Likely because Merlin had enlisted Harry to watch Martin like a hawk during the trials. His reluctance to take a dog was something Merlin had seen before and if it wasn't a fear of dogs, it almost always resulted in an animal abuser. Martin had fallen into neither category. His behavior had remained a mystery until his admission to Merlin, but Harry never got the benefit of that explanation.

 

"As you can see, there were too many things that simply didn't add up," Mickey concludes. "I wasn't positive I was correct, but I had strong suspicions."

 

"Which have been proven correct, incidentally," Harry remarks.

 

"Yes," Mickey murmurs. "What is it that caused the rift between him and my parents? Do you know?"

 

"It's not so much a 'what' as it is a 'who,'" Harry chuckles. "His other half, James Spencer. Martin and James met while they were at Cambridge. Something about James inspired him to reexamine his life and when he did, he found that taking over your father's law firm was not something he wanted for himself. He doesn't speak much of it, but apparently it was a rather impressive falling out."

 

Merlin watches Mickey carefully through Harry's explanation. He'd been curious to see how Mickey would process the information and when Harry mentions Martin taking over his father's firm, something of interest happens. The moment the words have left Harry's lips, Mickey's eyes go hard. His expression remains carefully neutral, but Merlin can see as plain as day that this revelation has greatly altered his mood.

 

"I see," Mickey answers curtly. "Well, it seems I'll be withdrawing from Cambridge's pre-law program."

 

"Was pre-law your choice?" Roxy asks, her face telling Merlin she already knew the answer.

 

"...no," Mickey says slowly. "It was understood for as long as I can remember that I would one day take over my father's firm and carry on the family name. It had never occurred to me to think to do otherwise."

 

"That's exactly what they had planned for Uncle Martin," Roxy informs him. "They never gave him any say at all. It sounds as though they never gave you any either."

 

To Merlin's ears, it sounds as though they had meant for Mickey to be a replacement for Martin and judging by the way his jaw tics, Mickey's thinking something similar. Having never had parents of his own, Merlin can't truly relate to this particular situation. But he did have someone, even if they had appeared only once he'd reached adulthood.

 

Morgana. 

 

She's been the closest thing to a mother he's ever had. In many ways, she is his mother. He knows she was soft on him in ways she wasn't with the Knights; not even Harry, who she adored. When he'd needed advice or hurts mended (physical or otherwise), it was always her he went to. More often than not, she came to him, refusing to allow his stubborn nature to win out. She could be tough on him when she thought it was necessary, but never without reason. It had been no secret that the late Chester King disliked him - dislike is a polite way of putting it - but Morgana had always backed him. When he would be dealing with his latest punishment or folding under the impossible workload their then-Arthur had tasked him with, she was there. When she held him... Though he had nothing to compare it to, he imagined it to be the same way a mother would hold her child. Morgana didn't just make him feel appreciated: she made him feel loved. In that respect, imagining someone like Martin's parents taking her place is not something he wants to think about.

 

"That aside," Mickey says, his expression neutral, "they're not why I'm here. How old is Martin?"

 

"He'll be forty-three in December," Merlin tells him. "After withdrawing from Cambridge, he came to us when he was nineteen and has been with us ever since."

 

"Yes. Your tailor shop," Mickey remarks, reaching up to adjust his glasses. "Exactly what circumstances result in an English tailor falling off a bridge and finding himself in America?"

 

Merlin suppresses a smile. Much like Martin, Mickey has no qualms with being blunt when he wants answers. Short of a DNA test they can't say the two are actually brothers, but Merlin's fairly certain one won't be necessary.

 

"You undoubtedly heard about the recent bombings here in England," Merlin says.

 

"Of course."

 

"Well, unfortunately our shop on Saville Row was destroyed. Martin was injured in the confusion following this," Merlin tells him. "We have two sister organizations in America who have been providing us with a home base as well as resources as we rebuild and we relocated him to America with us."

 

As the waitress arrives either their orders, they fall silent, but Mickey's gaze never leaves Merlin. For someone as young as he is, his stare carries an impressive weight, pinning Merlin in place as though he'd been chained down.

 

"I'm wondering why your own homes and the hospitals in England seemed insufficient," Mickey says once they're alone once more.

 

"All of us were relocating to America and didn't wish to leave him alone, especially since it seemed we would be there for sometime," Merlin explains. "Relocating him while we conducted our business seemed the logical choice."

 

"Conducting your business," Mickey echoes smoothly. "The sort of business that results in the loss of one's legs, I see."

 

The moment the words have hit the open air, Eggsy and Roxy are out of their seats and Harry looks fair to murderous. Merlin... just laughs. He laughs hard enough to make his eyes water and his stomach ache. He pulls his glasses off as he winds himself down, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Harry's hand is on his shoulder, almost as though he's afraid Merlin's finally cracked.

 

"I'm sorry, you just remind me terribly of Martin at your age," Merlin tells him. "He thought he knew everything, too. Smug as all get out, always thinking he had all the answers or could get them on his own. Eggsy, Roxy, you can sit, it's alright."

 

The two of them seem hesitant to comply, riled up by Mickey's seemingly uncouth remark. But Merlin knows he hadn't meant any harm. Not really. Eventually Galahad and Lancelot return to their seats, but sit on the edge as though expecting they'll need to show the newcomer some manners. Getting Harry to relax won't be so simple, he knows. They'll have to talk later.

 

"You seem to have some suspicions about our line of work," Merlin comments.

 

"I couldn't care less what your actual line of work is," Mickey says, folding his arms across his chest. "But you are not tailors and I don't appreciate you lying to my face about it."

 

"Well, we are tailors, it just happens that's not all we are," Merlin says.

 

"Excuse me? Not a tailor over here," Lamb interrupts. "I deal in books."

 

"Liquor," Tequila adds, raising his hand as well.

 

"As covers for whatever else it is that you do," Mickey says. "Which, as I said, I don't need to know the specifics of, since I'm sure whatever it is happens to be... delicate. At this point in time, I'd like to know when I can meet my brother."

 

Merlin defers to Harry on that question. However, he begins to question that decision when he sees that the new head of Kingsman still appears a tad cross with the youngest Gainsborough.

 

"That depends upon the results of this interview," Harry replies.

 

"I had already taken that as a given," Mickey says. "What is it you'd like from me?"

 

"Apologize to Merlin," Harry says waspishly.

 

"Harry," Merlin intones with a heavy frown.

 

Mickey seems to be searching for what is is he's expected to apologize for and opts to venture a guess. "For the remark about losing one's legs?"

 

"What else would you have to apologize to him for?" Eggsy asks moodily.

 

"Was it that offensive?" Mickey asks. "His legs are gone, you know. At least below the knee."

 

Merlin hears a sharp inhale from beside him that usually precipitates a trademarked Harry Hart explosion. He's preparing himself to hold Harry back when Mickey addresses them again, his head cocked to the side as he stares back at them curiously.

 

"I'm sorry, Merlin. I hadn't intended it to be offensive," he says. "I was merely trying to make a point. Frankly I've had enough of lies and deception and I don't intend to stand for it from anyone else. If I was... hurtful in my remarks, I never meant to be, but I apologize."

 

Harry exhales in a long sigh, sounding thoroughly put upon by the entirety of this exchange. When Merlin had said Mickey reminded him of a young Martin, he'd laughed about it. He could do that now, with years behind him. But Martin had been difficult to handle in the early years until his sharp edges had been smoothed out. The difference between the two siblings is that with Martin, Harry had only been thirty-two years old. Now, he's... well, he's got less patience for it, in any case, whether he realizes that or not. 

 

"I accept your apology," Merlin answers. He looks to Harry, still stewing in the seat beside him. "And hopefully that will be sufficient for you, you grumpy old git?"

 

"I was perfectly within reason asking for an apology," Harry says defensively. "And I am neither grumpy nor old, thank you."

 

"So you admit you're a git, then," Merlin observes with some amusement.

 

"On occasion, though it is few and far between," Harry answers primly. "One may strive for perfection, but we can never obtain the unobtainable."

 

"If he's back to posturing, everything's fine," Merlin assures Mickey, his tone flat even as Harry rolls his eye.

 

"...alright," Mickey answers, clearly not understanding what had just happened but not about to make a fuss.

 

There's a certain hesitance to the boy now that wasn't present previously. Merlin can see uncertainty clouding his eyes, as though he's left the safety of the shallows and now found himself in the deep, unable to see what may be lurking beneath the surface. It's a look he's seen before and one he knows how to read perfectly well. Mickey seems to be slightly more well adjusted than Martin had been at his age, but this doesn't change the fact that his parents' influence on him is still very strong. However, the mere fact that he wishes to distance himself from them speaks volumes about him.

 

"As far as seeing your brother," Harry says, clearing his throat to bring about order once more, "we will be relocating to a new location in Scotland in the coming weeks. Once we have made the move, I will have Roxy and Eggsy reach out to you. In the meantime, this should give you ample time to prepare as well as to explain the matter to your parents."

 

"Oh, I won't be telling them," Mickey says airily. "But I do agree I need some time to get my affairs in order. Though, right this moment, I suppose I should be returning home. They won't be pleased to find I've been sneaking out again."

 

He rises from his seat, but pauses to pull a slim memo book and pen from his back trouser pocket. Quickly jotting something down, he then tears the page from the binding and places it on the table before Roxy.

 

"I can be reached at this number," Mickey informs her, returning the book and pen to his pocket. "It's my personal mobile, which I have on my person at all times."

 

"Do you text?" Roxy asks with a grin.

 

Mickey considers the question. "I've never had occasion to, but I suppose I could."

 

"I'll send you a text later then," Roxy says, rising from her seat. "It was good to meet you."

 

"Likewise," Mickey answers, the barest hint of a smile coming to his face. "You've all given me a great deal to think about. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I'm looking forward to hearing from you."

 

Merlin watches him go, wondering how exactly he means to leave for Scotland without informing his parents. Not just that but apparently withdrawing from Cambridge as well. It seems like another family falling out in the making and although on some small level he regrets that it has to happen, he knows that it does, in fact, have to happen. The best thing for that boy will be space between himself and his parents and Mickey seems to recognize that.

 

"What a weirdo!" Lamb laughs once he's out of sight.

 

"Was Uncle Martin really like that?" Roxy asks them with a frown.

 

"He was worse, actually," Harry replies, sipping his coffee. "Now, with that taken care of, I suppose that concludes your errands."

 

"We've got one more, actually," Eggsy says, being very careful not to look Merlin's way. "Was just gonna pop in on mum and Daisy, see if they need anything. So long as we have time?"

 

"Of course," Harry answers.

 

It had been a smart move on Eggsy's part. Michelle Unwin was still something of a sore spot for Harry. They all felt immense guilt for Lee's death but perhaps none of them more than Harry. A large portion of that guilt has to do with Kingsman leaving her and her young son with nothing more than an offered favor. He would never say no to Eggsy for something regarding his mother.

 

In truth, Eggsy's errand is one that Merlin has sent him on. In a bank in the city, carefully locked away, is a box of personal items Merlin had collected over the years. They all hold some sentimental value; enough that he would keep them squirreled away as he has, sure that they were somewhere safe. Being as many of those items have to do with Harry himself - and one item in particular - he doesn't feel comfortable going with Harry to retrieve it. It's something that he needs... privacy for. But he can trust Eggsy in this regard. He knows the boy would never dream of trying to look inside and for that, he's thankful.

 

"Right, well, we'll shove off, let you two get back to your date," Eggsy says with a smirk, rising and pushing his chair in.

 

"It's not a -..." Merlin begins to say, only to stop himself to think the matter over. "Well, alright, I suppose it's something like one. But that's none of your business, so: On you get."

 

"I'll do my best to keep them on their best behavior, but I make no promises," Roxy says as the group begins to say their goodbyes.

 

Merlin shakes his head as the four take off, quickly disappearing out of sight as they hail a cab and pull away, leaving the two men in each other's company. But Harry's attention is not on Merlin. Nor the direction the cab had sped off in. Instead, Harry's gaze is fixed firmly where Mickey had walked away from them and due to his posture, Merlin can tell he's still incensed by the young man's words.

 

"Harry, it's alright. Really," Merlin tells him. "He didn't mean anything by it."

 

"And how would you know? We know almost nothing about him," Harry replies.

 

"You remember how Martin was when - "

 

"He's not Martin, Merlin," Harry says firmly, at last turning his head to look him in the eye.

 

"No, he isn't," Merlin murmurs. "But he is _like_ Martin, you must acknowledge that. He just needs patience and a guiding hand to help him see there are things beyond what his parents have subjected him to."

 

"I don't want you to get too comfortable with him," Harry says with a frown. "I'm going to have a tail placed on him."

 

Merlin sighs. "Alright. I will admit it's a smart move, since you're correct in that we don't know him. But would you like to talk about what's really bothering you in all this?"

 

Harry doesn't answer, his eye lowering its gaze until he's staring unhappily into his coffee cup.

 

"Harry," Merlin says gently, reaching out and cupping his palm at the nape of his partner's neck. He flexes his fingers, massaging Harry's neck at the base of his skull, drawing a soft sigh from the former Galahad. "It's alright. I'm alright. You don't have to keep punishing yourself like this. And you certainly don't have to spring to my defense against anything more dangerous than a slight breeze."

 

"Of course I do," Harry corrects him, turning to look him in the eye once more. "I failed you. As a friend, a colleague and as a man who has loved you every waking moment these past thirty-four years. And I won't fail you again."

 

"What happened was _not_ your fault," Merlin insists. "And I'll say it as many times as I need to in order to get it through that thick skull of yours."

 

The jab doesn't prompt the laughter he'd been hoping for.

 

"Harry," he says, his voice soft, imploring. "How are we supposed to move forward if you can't stop looking back?"

 

Harry inhales deeply, exhaling in a great sigh that seems to help relieve him of some of his negativity. "I'm sorry. You're right; I should be in the moment."

 

"Would this help?"

 

Harry's surprised when Merlin kisses him, he can tell. He feels his fiancé freeze, every muscle in his body drawn taut. A reflex. Something they both are still trying to get over, this decades long fear of being caught. But it lasts only a moment before Harry melts into it, kissing him back with a relaxed intensity that only Harry Hart can manage. By the time they part, Harry's shoulders had regained the easy slope they had sported earlier in the day, his lone eye soft as he gazes back at him.

 

"Yes, that helped," Harry tells him.

 

"Good," Merlin answers, moving to shift back.

 

Until Harry stops him. Their new Arthur reaches toward him, cupping his face. Harry's thumb traces his jawline, the corners of his lips.

 

"Although," Harry purrs, leaning back in towards him, "I could always be a little more... in the moment."

 

Merlin grins, his laugh coming out as a puff of air. "Cheeky."

 

Cheeky though it may be, that doesn't mean Merlin stops him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol adding more to our cast of characters.
> 
>  
> 
> [Mr. Gainsborough - Jeremy Irons](https://filmreviewonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/High-Rise-002.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [Mrs. Gainsborough - Anjelica Huston](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/3c/c0/b8/3cc0b821b1ff38d789e0fa894f400dbb.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [Mickey Gainsborough - Logan Lerman](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/a1/a3/e1/a1a3e14ef3da8b49cb82abe714bb7db8--attractive-guys-man-candy.jpg)


	10. what the water gave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Cause they took your loved ones  
> But returned them in exchange for you  
> But would you have it any other way?  
> Would you have it any other way?  
> You could have it any other way
> 
> 'Cause she's a cruel mistress  
> And the bargain must be made  
> But oh, my love, don't forget me  
> When I let the water take me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are some allusions made towards child abuse in this chapter. nothing explicit, but worth mentioning all the same, I think.

Consciousness returns to Martin slowly, as though passing through a filter. One of the things he's immediately aware of is that he's not in his own bed - or any other familiar bed, for that matter. The pervasive smell of antiseptic tells him he's in a hospital, but where? Why?

 

"Mr. Gainsborough?"

 

Martin grunts, squeezing his eyes shut against the vocal intrusion which sets his head throbbing. His head _hurts_. Terribly at that.

 

"Mr. Gainsborough, it's going to be bright for just a moment, alright?"

 

Before he has a chance to respond, his eyelids are being pried open and subjected to a bright pen light. He's left blinking the spots out of his vision as he tries to clear enough of them to make out the figure speaking to him. A doctor, of course, but... Not Morgana. Of course. Mags would never address him as 'Mr. Gainsborough.' But he's not on Kingsman property, it seems. Just an ordinary hospital. But _why_? How did he get here?

 

"Mr. Gainsborough, I'm Dr. Shahidi, I've been in charge of your treatment since you were brought in," the grey-haired woman tells him. "You've had a serious head injury - among others - so I'd like to ask you some questions to see where you're at. Sound good?"

 

No, it doesn't sound _good_. But he agrees all the same with a brief nod of his head.

 

"Good. Now, let's start off simple. What is your name?"

 

"Martin Gainsborough," Martin mumbles agitatedly.

 

"And what year is it?"

 

"2017."

 

"...mm-hmm. your occupation?"

 

Martin doesn't like the sound of that hum she'd just made. "Tailor."

 

"... mm-hmm... Mr. Gainsborough, can you tell me the name of your wife?"

 

"Wife?" Martin echoes, closing his eyes against a sharp spike of pain. "I don't have a wife, I've never been wed."

 

The doctor crosses her arms over her clipboard, watching him carefully. Martin doesn't like it any more than he likes her strange questions. A wife. How ridiculous. Surely some sort of trick question. Although... Where is James? Not that he expects him to have been sitting at his bedside every waking moment, but surely he must be somewhere close by.

 

"Where's James?" Martin asks.

 

"Who is James?" Dr. Shahidi replies.

 

"James Spencer," Martin mumbles. "He would have been here at some point. He's impossible to miss. He makes sure of it."

 

"I don't seem to recall anyone by that name stopping in," she answers him. "Mr. Gainsborough, there seems to be a bit of confusion. This isn't unusual with head injuries and may only be temporary, but you should know - "

 

"What confusion?" Martin interrupts.

 

"The year is 2014. You are employed as a barrister, not a tailor. Your wife's name is Katherine; you've been married for sixteen years and have one son," Dr. Shahidi informs him.

 

"No," Martin says, shutting his eyes against another stab of pain. It feels as though it's getting worse each time. "That's not right."

 

"As I said, this isn't uncommon with head injuries," she goes on to say. "I understand this may be confusing for you, but it may only be temporary."

 

"I'm not confused," Martin tells her. He can barely hear his own words past the pain that feels as though it's splitting his skull in half. "You're just... wrong..."

 

The doctor is speaking to him, he thinks, but the pain is growing worse by the second. Soon spots begin to appear behind his eyelids and he feels himself dragged back into unawareness.

 

 

* * *

 

Getting James to leave Martin's side had been no small task, as Merlin had come to find. When they'd first arrived, James would gladly venture out with Roxy and Eggsy on errands or accompany Merlin to physical therapy. But ever since Roxy had returned from her trip to speak with Martin's parents, James had been sullen and withdrawn, refusing to move unless absolutely necessary.

 

It seemed very little fell under the category of 'absolutely necessary' for their former Lancelot. It had taken Harry a full half-hour to convince him to leave the room and it was only Merlin's request to spend some time alone with Martin that had finally gotten him to stop digging his heels in. Even still, as Harry lead him out, James kept glancing over his shoulder morosely until he'd reluctantly left the room.

 

Merlin had brought his work with him, setting himself up on the left side of the bed. The project he had with him today was a special one. Revere had recovered Martin's spectacles from the Tower Bridge prior to their departure. They were damaged extensively, but Merlin is confident enough that he'll be able to recover the footage recorded on them. One of the features Merlin had implemented on Kingsman's spectacles was a dead man's switch.

 

All the footage Merlin sees in Control, transmitted from his Knights in the field, is streamed live. The spectacles are equipped to record and hold ten minutes of footage. If the spectacles are removed from the wearer, or if the wearer is killed, the spectacles are outfitted to keep the last five minutes of footage up to that point as well as record for another five.

 

Although James had given them a description of their mysterious adversary, Merlin is hoping whatever is on Martin's spectacles might give them more to work with. Hopefully they don't have any more trouble coming their way, but if they do, he wants to do everything he can to make sure they're prepared for it.

 

"I know you'll hate to hear it, but I told Harry the dog story," Merlin says conversationally. "I wouldn't have ordinarily, but my hand was forced in the matter."

 

He glances up from his task, eyes roving over Percival's still form. He's mending, slowly but steadily, day in and day out. But he still sleeps all the same.

 

"You've a brother, you know," Merlin says. "I don't know if anyone's told you. He found the dog you buried, that's why I mention it."

 

He clucks his tongue unhappily, holding the spectacles up to the light. That strange woman had really done a number on them - while Martin was still wearing them, from what it seems. Merlin did his best to make them as unobtrusive and functional as possible while still being durable, but often times one must be sacrificed for another. Fitting as much tech as he had into the thin frames had always been something he'd been particularly proud of, but in this case it's almost working against him.

 

"His name is Michael. Or Mickey. He prefers Mickey. Don't know where he picked that up, but something tells me it wasn't your parents," Merlin scoffs. He thinks about the boy and their meeting and his awkwardly stiff nature. It brings a smile to his face. "He's a lot like you when you first joined us. Only between you and me, I think age may have stripped Harry of some of his patience."

 

Of course Harry would balk at the notion. But Mickey's remark had prodded at a sensitive point for Harry and so, unsurprisingly, he'd reacted negatively. Merlin had been afraid for a time that he'd have to stop Harry from lunging across the table at the boy. In part he'd understood, but another part of him felt a touch annoyed with his overreaction to anything that came remotely near Merlin. He understood _why_ , just... it grew tiresome at times. It's hard getting over all of this when Harry won't let it go. Merlin shakes his head, shifting the thoughts away.

 

"I remember when you came to us. You seemed so young at the time," he remarks with a huff of laughter. "And yet Harry and I had both been no older then you when we'd joined. You still seemed younger than we'd ever been, somehow."

 

There had been a sort of fumbling awkwardness about Martin despite how skilled and intelligent he was. He had been raised as a gentleman, yes, but even still he had corners sharp enough to cut anyone who came close enough. How many times had Merlin seen that perplexed frown when Martin failed to comprehend the bite of his words or the bluntness of his actions? Martin had never been what Merlin would call a bad person, but he can certainly say he'd grown to be a good man, even if there had been some hiccups along the way. And Merlin's proud to have had some part in it, however small.

 

Looking at him now, Martin's hair is streaked with grey. Just as James's is. Just as Harry's is. They've all been together for a long time, have been through many things together. Good and bad. Merlin doesn't want to think that will end for them in this room.

 

He worries for James more and more by the day. His breakdown following Roxy's return from England only saw him growing worse as time wore on and Merlin truly believes that James's well being hinges on whether or not Martin wakes again. Even if James had been whole and hale beforehand, losing Martin would've still been a monumental blow. But with everything he's already been through...

 

Merlin wishes there were more he could do. This day and age and they're still not even close to truly understanding the human brain. There's no gadget Merlin can fashion, no tech he can hack which will fix this. That's what frustrates him more than anything. He's used to taking care of his Knights, being able to look after them with gear or from his position in Control. Here and now, he can do nothing.

 

Nothing but repair the spectacles laid out in his lap.

 

 

* * *

 

Martin stares down at the picture frame held in his left hand. He sees himself in the picture, standing beside a dark haired woman and a dark eyed boy. One that looks precisely like him. Martin looks like his father. He stands a notable distance away from his son and... wife. It looks like the family photos Martin had once taken with his own parents. And much like his own parents, this single family photo is the only one on display in the entirety of the household.

 

Since being released, Martin had done some digging. From what he gathers, the marriage had been arranged by Martin's father. Katherine came from a family in similarly good standing, whose ethics and ideals mirrored that of the Gainsboroughs. Martin would be tempted to call it more of a business partnership than a marriage, but apparently that suited them both just fine.

 

Their single child is a boy of twelve named Miles. It seems that Martin has done everything he can to raise his son in precisely the same way in which his father had raised him. Knowing that, Martin wonders just  _how_ precisely that was. He remembers full well the price for mistakes; one which he had come to accept as normality until the late Thomas Brampton changed his mind. A swift backhand was the surest way to see that Martin would never repeat his mistakes. The thought of laying a hand on any child of his own in such a manner sets Martin's stomach roiling.

 

He sets the picture frame back upon the mantle, trying to smother the revulsion he feels by the mere sight of it. It's what his parents had always wanted for him. And it had happened. He works as a barrister in the chambers run by his father, primed and ready to take over as the senior barrister the moment his father retires. He's married to a woman as austere as his own mother. His son is every bit as grim and unsmiling as he himself had been.

 

He shuffles away from the mantle stiffly, frustrated by his current limitations. Apparently being struck by a speeding motor vehicle is a fairly effective way to get yourself properly mangled. In addition to the injury to his head - which had left him with the parting gift of a lovely skull fracture - he'd broken his right arm in four places, his clavicle, six of his ribs, ruptured his spleen... Frankly, there were too many things for him to remember. The point is, getting about with his arm in a sling and leaning on a cane which he now _actually_ has to use has been frustrating.

 

Though he'd been allowed to return home - _"Not my home,"_ he thinks - with strict instructions not to overexert himself and a bottle of pain pills he hadn't touched, he hasn't been able to come to terms with... whatever it is that's happening. He must still be asleep after... something. Something had put him here, but he can't remember what.

 

"This is a dream. I know it's a dream, it has to be," Martin murmurs to himself, rubbing his forehead. "Why aren't I able to wake up? I have to wake up..."

 

He's thankful his wife and child had been on holiday in Greece and hadn't deemed his injuries severe enough for them to return. It means he has the house to himself. He's certain they would ship him off to the psychiatric ward if they could see him, standing in the middle of the sitting room, mumbling to himself about a reality that doesn't exist.

 

"But it _does_ ," he insists to himself. "It does. _This_ is what's wrong. _This_ is what's not real. I just need to... to..."

 

**Wake up.**

 

He swears he hears it, echoing in his head with a voice that isn't his. A voice that sounds like... Merlin?

 

"The shop," Martin says to himself with a start.

 

If he can get to the shop, maybe things will right themselves. Once again, he finds himself thankful he'd been left alone; it means he can call for a cab without anyone trying to stop him. He could have used any number of the drivers who are apparently in his employ, but he wants to distance himself from this as much as possible.

 

Before long, he finds himself sitting in the back seat trying to calm his nerves. He's nervous. Him. He's stared down gun barrels and fought hand-to-hand with Spetsnaz and disabled live explosives while breaking less of a sweat. Somehow this is far more frightening than any of those things.

 

As the cab rolls up to the shop, Martin feels his heart in his throat. He knows what's waiting for him in there. Namely, nothing. He already expects them to greet him as a stranger, he just hopes being there will be enough to shake him loose from this hellish nightmare.

 

Pushing the front door open, he finds the shop the same as it's ever been. This false reality may have only spanned a handful of days, but he finds himself with a surprising feeling of homesickness burrowed deep in his chest. But apart from that, he doesn't feel much else. No sudden jerk back to wakefulness or gradual easing out of his dream. No, something else then. He has to do something else.

 

"Can I help you, sir?"

 

The question startles him. It's never been directed at him in the shop. Something else to wake him. Maybe he doesn't need some _thing_ so much as he needs some _one_.

 

"Yes, I'm looking for James Spencer. Is he available?" Martin asks, coming to stand before the counter.

 

"I'm afraid not, sir," the clerk answers. "He's away on business in Argentina. Left just this morning, in fact."

 

"Argen--..."

 

Argentina.

 

And it's 2014. 2014 not 2017. James is in Argentina and it's 2014. Martin feels a sudden lightheadedness wash over him and grabs hold of the counter to stabilize himself as his knees go weak.

 

"Are you alright, sir?"

 

"I..." Martin says, his tongue feeling as though it doesn't fit in his mouth. "Harry. Harry Hart... is he here?"

 

The clerk casts a suspicious look at him, but nods and asks him to wait a moment. Dream or not, he doesn't care anymore. He can't let James go to that chalet. He has to talk to Harry and make him understand. He has to convince Harry to bring James back from Argentina before the worst happens.

 

"Is there something I can help you with?"

 

Martin looks up to find Harry Hart standing in before him, that same look of bored amusement on his face that he always presented to the world. Like a large cat idling in the sun, just waiting for something interesting to capture his attention. Martin's throat tightens.

 

This is the one good thing that's come of this nightmare. Here, Harry's alive again. Not dead in Kentucky, where they couldn't even locate his body for a proper burial. Harry's still alive here and Merlin still has him. Harry's still alive and standing here, perfectly whole and healthy.

 

"Harry..." he says softly.

 

All at once, Harry's demeanor changes. His eyes go sharp, his posture rigid and guarded. This Harry doesn't know him, Martin reminds himself. He's just given Harry every reason to suspect him of something. And somehow, the fact that it kills him to have Harry look at him like a stranger is a far stronger feeling than the worry that he's just put himself in a very dangerous position.

 

"I'm sorry, you have me at a disadvantage," Harry remarks.

 

"I'm Martin Gainsborough, but that's not important," Martin says hurriedly. "You have to call James back from his assignment in Argentina."

 

Now Harry's on high alert. But Martin doesn't care. He plows forward, heedless of what will happen as a result.

 

"I know you have no reason to trust me, believe me, I do, but you mustn't let the assignment in Argentina proceed any further," Martin says insistently. "It's imperative that you pull him back immediately, he's in danger."

 

"I'm not sure who you are or who you think you are," Harry says smoothly, motioning for the clerk to close and latch the doors, "but I believe this will all go much better for you if you come quietly."

 

"Listen to me. James cannot proceed to the chalet," Martin says, feeling himself grow more anxious by the moment.

 

"I'll give you one more chance to come along under your own power and then the option will no longer be on the table," Harry says, calmly adjusting his wristwatch.

 

" _James will die, Harry_!" Martin nearly snarls. "And if by some miracle he manages to survive a second time, they're going to do everything they can to _break_ him. You have no idea what he's about to go through - "

 

Martin had known it was coming. Still, the knockout dart feels a bit like a kick when he's already down. At the very least - he thinks as consciousness rapidly departs from him - Harry had been kind enough to keep him from hitting the floor.

 

 

* * *

 

Harry pauses, looking up from his book to the figure in the bed before him. Keeping his index finger to hold his place, he closes the book with a soft sigh and leans back in his seat.

 

"This isn't making a bit of difference to you, is it?" he asks.

 

He'd taken to reading to him aloud, just as Roxy had been doing, regardless of how ridiculous it felt. They said it was supposed to be helpful to coma patients. Harry isn't so sure about that. At least not in this case. Martin didn't seem to be any closer to waking than he had when Harry had first seen him. He didn't seem any closer to waking than he did with the last book Roxy had read to him. Or the one before that. Or the one before that. Or the one before that. And so on and so forth. Not that he would ever say as much to Roxy or James, but he wonders when they should start talking about what Martin's wishes may be for this situation.

 

"You would hate this, I'm sure, if you were able to tell us," Harry says. "But then if you were able to tell us, the whole point would be rather moot."

 

It's not that he's given up. Not at all. It's just that Harry can't help but be a realist in a situation such as this one. He'd conferred with Morgana and Warren and Whiskey. They had explained everything to him in a way they wouldn't with James; essentially, completely frank and brutally honest.

 

"It's not my wish to let you go. That's the furthest thing from the truth," Harry says, lowering his gaze to the cover of his book. "But if you've already gone, I believe keeping things as they are would be... cruel. To you _and_ to James, as well as Roxy."

 

The thought fills him with a heavy feeling of grief. He wants to keep holding out, believing Martin will regain consciousness if they just give him time. But the thought of keeping his body alive if he's already gone, if the part of Martin that makes him Martin is already gone... It wouldn't be right. It pains him to even consider it.

 

Setting his book aside, Harry rises from his seat and steps up to the side of the bed. It had only been a short time ago that he had waited at Merlin's bedside in this way. Even just remembering seeing Merlin like this makes his chest tight. It had been his fault. It had been all his fault. Just as this is.

 

Merlin had recovered the footage captured by the dead man's switch on Martin's spectacles. They'd watched it. James couldn't get through the whole thing. Harry heard this woman - this _War_ , as she calls herself - demanding that Percival reveal his location to her. She wanted Galahad. She wanted Harry Hart. She wanted him.

 

Not Percival. Not Martin. Not the man lying comatose here now.

 

But Martin is who she'd gotten. That fight should have been Harry's. The fact that it wasn't sets guilt and anger churning inside him until his pulse quickens and his ears ring. Harry is a man of pride, but even more so a man of honor. This chafes against both of those aspects of him, leaving him frustrated with no means to correct the situation.

 

Even with facial recognition software running on the images they'd captured, they still have no idea who this woman is beyond her threatening monicker. Equally as unsettling is that beyond Harry, they don't know what she wants. They don't even know what she wants Harry _for_.

 

"Merlin's doing better by the day," Harry says. "Though I still think he expects too much of himself. Physical therapy is strenuous, he tires easily and that frustrates him. I understand, of course, finding it difficult to accept his new limitations. I'm still learning to myself. I suppose I just wish he wouldn't push himself quite so hard."

 

Harry's not sure what good this might be doing, but if there's a sliver of a chance it could help, he'll talk until his jaw falls off. James will tell Martin of all their goings on, keeping him updated on all of them in his own way. Harry admires James's devotion to Martin - always has - but he worries with how seldom James is willing to leave him for so much as five minutes. He's just been going downhill at an even faster pace since his recent breakdown, doing his best to avoid all of them; even Roxy.

 

Harry understands not wanting to leave Martin. He hadn't wished to leave Merlin for so much as a second. Keeping himself away when Merlin had woken, under the mistaken assumption that Merlin had moved on and would want space, had been one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. With Martin still in this state, James's refusal to leave his side is understandable... but not healthy.

 

"James isn't doing well. I'm sure you know about that better than I do," Harry says. "But he's growing worse and I fear for his well being should you not wake soon. Roxy as well. She's managed to handle all of this with a surprising level of grace, but there's really only so long one can keep their chin up."

 

He reaches for Martin's left hand and turns it palm up. Silently, he studies the thin, still-healing scars across his fingers and palms; places where the edge of that woman's sword had bit into flesh as he'd pulled himself hand over hand towards her. James had gone shockingly pale at the sight, jumping up so fast he toppled his chair in his haste to flee the room. It had been difficult for all of them to watch. Even now Harry grinds his teeth at the memory of seeing Martin drawing that sword deeper into his own body in his desperation to keep that woman from going after Roxy.

 

_That should have been me._

 

_That was mine to bear._

 

It doesn't matter to him that it was quite literally impossible for him to have been there. It doesn't matter to him that Martin was likely in far better physical and mental shape to handle it than Harry would have been. What matters is that War had been after him and Martin had paid for it.

 

"I'm so sorry, Martin," Harry says squeezing his hand.

 

He wants to give him a proper apology. But it doesn't feel right to give it now. That will have to wait until he wakes.

 

 

* * *

 

Martin sits on the floor in the corner of the cell, gazing wearily back at Harry. Galahad sits in a chair in front of the door, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, his hands folded in his lap as though he has all the time in the world. Martin can practically imagine a cat's tail twitching behind him as he watches his prey, waiting to pounce.

 

"That must be a rather uncomfortable choice of seating, given your injuries," Harry remarks.

 

It's true, sitting on the floor jostles mending bones and healing wounds in a way that leaves him with a constant ache and sharp pains whenever he shifts. But Martin has no desire to move to the bed at the other end of the padded cell. He'd sat in the same spot since he'd woken here, as unmoving in his body as he is in his convictions.

 

"You sit here wasting time remarking upon my posture, all while Lancelot is in peril," Martin replies.

 

"And just how is it you know all this?" Harry asks.

 

"I've told you several times now," Martin sighs, shutting his eyes for just a moment.

 

"What you've told me," Harry says, "is a tale fit to have been spun from the minds of the mad and I do not believe you to be mad, Mr. Gainsborough. Not at all."

 

"You simply think I'm lying," Martin says. He opens his eyes, regarding the man who should be one of his oldest friends with an air of resignation. "And just what have Merlin's gadgets and Morgana's potions told you, Harry?"

 

"That you are telling the truth. Or at the very least that you believe you are," Harry says thoughtfully.

 

"Yet you do not think me mad," Martin observes. "You sit here and waste time, whiling away what remains of James's life. And you would still call yourself his friend."

 

"Why should I think to believe that a capable agent such as James would be in danger of losing his life any more than he has been on any other occasion?" Harry asks, head tilting just slightly to the right. "And how should you come to know unless you were party to it?"

 

"I have _told_ you how I know," Martin grates.

 

"Yes. All this business of dreams and shifting realities," Harry hums. "It does make for a fanciful tale, I'll give you that. However, you've yet to supply me with any proof of your claim."

 

Martin suppresses a sigh. Nothing he can say to Harry will sway him. He has put forth any number of facts, memories, details he would think no one other than someone in the position he was in would know. Yet Harry has found a workaround to beat him every step of the way.

 

Harry had once wanted to be a lepidopterist. His dog in the Galahad trials had been named Mr. Pickle. He's been in love with Merlin since Barcelona in 1983. His mentor and father figure was Thomas Brampton, the former Lancelot. Harry had once proposed to Merlin in Turkey as a means of distraction... and genuinely.

 

All things, Harry had said, anyone could find out if they dug deep enough and talked to the right people. Martin was running out of time. He didn't know how long he'd been here - sleep deprivation is a hell of a thing - but he knew it had been too long already. There had to be something he was missing. Something which would convince Harry.

 

Lost in thought, he barely notices the door swing open until Merlin is filling the doorframe. He holds his clipboard before him like a shield; a defensive posture. Merlin is feeling vulnerable. And judging by his red-rimmes eyes...

 

"Harry," Merlin says.

 

To break away from using Harry's codename means it's something important. Martin knows already. He doesn't want to hear it. Perhaps if he doesn't hear it, then it hasn't happened.

 

"Merlin?" Harry answers, looking to his wizard with some concern.

 

"There's news from Argentina," Merlin says, his tone somber. "Lancelot has been killed in action. The field crew retrieved his body twenty minutes ago."

 

Martin sees the carefully controlled grief written into Harry's features. It's the sort of thing you only see if you know what you're looking for. But Martin doesn't wish to look. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling hot tears coursing down his face.

 

James is dead.

 

Whether this is a real or not, whether it's his James or not, Martin had failed. James had died atop that lonely mountain far from home all over again. And this time, he had well and truly died. Martin feels grief settle over him like an old blanket dug out from the back of the closet; something familiar which he had put away, only to find himself using it once more.

 

As consumed as he is by his own grief, he barely registers the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Next he knows, hands grip him by his shirt and roughly drag him up before slamming him back against the wall. A sudden explosion of pain tears an involuntary scream from him and he's certain he'd've fallen had it not been for Harry pinning him to the wall.

 

"Talk," Harry snarls.

 

His eyes are alight with rage and Martin struggles to meet his gaze. He's already told Harry what he knows. But Harry hadn't listened. He doesn't know what he could say now that would possibly appease him.

 

"I've had enough of your games," Harry says, consumed by that fury that had made Galahad one of their most formidable agents. Martin has seen this anger in Harry many times, but never directed at him. It's terrifying. It's absolutely terrifying. "You've been given plenty of opportunity to speak the truth and now my patience is at an end. _Talk_."

 

But Martin can't. He doesn't know what to say. Nothing he says now will be what Harry wants to hear, regardless of its truth. Getting nothing but silence only seems to stoke the fire as Harry pulls him from the wall only to savagely slam him back against it. Martin thinks he must have blacked out briefly, because next he knows, he's in a heap on the floor while Harry and Merlin argue before him. Everything hurts. He finds pain has a way of making one unnaturally aware of all the pieces that make up their body and right now he's not sure there's so much as one that isn't causing him agony.

 

James is dead.

 

James is dead and he'd failed. Everything is going to happen just as it had already. James dies. Harry proposes Eggsy. Harry meets with Professor Arnold and later lapses into a coma. Harry wakes and meets with Valentine and then...

 

No.

 

Not that.

 

He couldn't get Harry to believe him in time for James, but now he has to work twice as hard for another reason.

 

"Harry," Martin croaks, dragging himself up to a seated position. "You have to listen. Please."

 

The conversation between Merlin and Harry pauses with his words. As Harry slowly drops to a crouch in front of him, Martin can see the thinly veiled threat lurking in the older man's eyes; nonsense won't be tolerated any further. But Martin can give him nothing other than what he has and pray it's enough.

 

"It's Arthur. He's the reason James is dead," Martin says. "He sent him to that chalet purposely so he would be killed. He's working with the enemy - "

 

"I don't have time for this," Harry scoffs, moving to rise.

 

In a panic, Martin reaches out and latches on to Harry's arm, doing everything he can to hold him in place. He can't let all of this happen again. Is it a dream? Is it reality? He doesn't know any longer. But whatever it is, he knows he can't bear to see these events play out again.

 

"Don't go to Kentucky," Martin implores. "Please. Don't go to the church."

 

Harry moves to yank his arm away, but Martin holds fast. He can't allow Harry to leave until he understands.

 

"Harry, please. Please, you mustn't go to Kentucky no matter what," Martin begs him. "You'll die there. It's just what Arthur wants, you're too much of a liability to - "

 

Harry and Merlin are working together now to pry him loose and that only serves to heighten Martin's anxiety. It's like something snaps inside him and all logic and reason is abandoned. It's as though all he can see is that footage of Harry being shot in the head, over and over, interlaced with images of Merlin hunched over at his station, shoulders shaking with grief. It hurts so much more than his physical injuries to have to feel these things. And he doesn't have a choice. It's been thrust upon him and he fumbles under its weight with clumsy hands.

 

"Harry, _don't_!" Martin sobs, unsure when he began to cry. "Arthur will have you murdered! Please don't go!"

 

He misses Harry. He misses the man who had seen enough good in him to consider worth cultivating. He misses one of the first people who bothered to give a damn about him. He misses Harry Hart, who is a good man - even if he is not always a gentle man - and a good friend, who loves and is loved by Merlin so deeply that one can hardly exist without the other.

 

Valentine's bullet had claimed two lives. He can't allow it to happen again. God, no, not again.

 

"Please, please don't...!"

 

Again he feels a sharp sting against his neck and almost immediately his body begins to grow loose and pliant, his head swimming. It's enough for Harry to slip free from his hold. Martin rails against the pull of the sedative, even as he knows the futility of the action.

 

"Harry... don't go..."

 

His eyelids are heavy. He can't keep them open any longer. And he can't stop these damned tears.

 

**Wake up.**

 

He hears it again as he had before. Only this time it's not Merlin's voice, but Harry's. Not the one standing here, no. Like an echo inside his own head. He wants to. He wants to so badly, but how?

 

He's so tired.

 

 

* * *

 

Morgana continues rewrapping Martin's dressings as Roxy draws to the end of the book she'd been reading aloud. For a moment the girl does nothing, staring blankly down at the pages, but rouses herself enough to close the book in favor of watching Morgana work. It's been roughly two months since the attack on Kingsman had pushed them to temporarily relocate to the United States and since Morgana had been summoned to care for the fractured remains of their organization.

 

Things have progressed about as well as one could hope... for the most part. The past two months have taken a heavier toll on their young Lancelot than most. With Martin yet to wake and James's recent breakdown, Roxy has more than enough on her plate. But she's borne it all with her chin held high and her shoulders straight, doing her title proud.

 

"Morgana?" Roxy prods.

 

"Yes, dear?" Morgana answers her.

 

"When we met with Uncle Martin's brother he was... a bit rough around the edges," Roxy says slowly, choosing her words carefully. "But Arthur and Merlin claimed Uncle Martin had been even worse in the beginning. Is that true?"

 

Morgana chuckles at that, shaking her head. "Don't let them fool you, they were just as much a handful themselves, just in different ways."

 

She looks up to find Roxy frowning, apparently still quite bothered by this revelation. But then, she'd really only come to know Martin when she was a young girl, after he and James had gotten together and the influence of the other three had rounded out those sharp edges. Morgana supposes it would be difficult for her to picture otherwise.

 

"Martin was a product of his environment," Morgana said. "I can't tell you why his parents are the way that they are or why they would bother to bring a child into that kind of household, just that they did. Subsequently he was not always the easiest person to understand or work with. I imagine he thought the same of the rest of us."

 

"It's just difficult to imagine, I suppose," Roxy admits. "It's not as though I didn't notice what sort of person he was... is... it's just that after meeting Mickey, I can't imagine someone being worse without it being intentionally cruel."

 

The observation makes Morgana smile quietly to herself. Roxy has a special touch with Martin that Morgana isn't sure she's ever truly noticed. Not everyone was able to pick up on the fact that primary difference between Martin and his parents was intention. The Gainsboroughs made sure their words and actions would cut, angling them to hit as deeply as possible. They were never confused by the reactions they got to this.

 

Martin on the other hand, seemed bound to brutal honesty coupled with an inability to perceive this as potentially hurtful. Being raised to suppress all emotion meant he often couldn't understand it in others. To him it was all completely rational. Logical. Linear. Entirely black and white terms. It's just that the world didn't always function that way.

 

So it would only make sense, she supposes, that in the end the person who seemed to be able to understand him best was a child. Morgana would hesitate to say he'd had an actual childhood, given how he'd been raised, and his interactions with a young Roxy had weighed heavily into his emotional re-education. He was gentle with her in a way none of them had expected him capable of, listening to her childish babbling about her day at school with rapt attention or employing a surprising level of patience in helping her practice her form for ballet.

 

Because Roxy brought that out in Martin.

 

"Does it bother you to think of him that way?" Morgana asks.

 

"It's not that it bothers me," Roxy replies, "I just find it so difficult to picture. If I didn't know Mickey as Uncle Martin's brother, I don't know that I would've cared to know him. What was it that lead Arthur and Merlin to befriend him?"

 

"I think they both saw something of themselves in Martin," Morgana says, moving to check the IV lines. "But for Harry, it was what he saw of Merlin in him. Harry was the one to administer the final portion of the trials to Martin. He said he was surprised to see your uncle immediately begin to inspect his weapon when Harry asked him to shoot the dog. Harry had thought he wouldn't hesitate. The only other person that he knew of who had examined their gun was Merlin."

 

Satisfied with the lines, she examines her patient, checking for anything that needed tending to which she may have missed. Finding everything in order, she smooths his hair back from his forehead and gives him a long look. Many of his smaller wounds had healed to scarring by now; the wound at his temple no longer requires protective bandages, the fractures to his skull beneath knitting nicely.

 

His hair is in need of a trim, but his face is clean shaven. James had insisted that would bother him more than anything else and although she's inclined to agree, she's sure a large part of it is simply because James needs to feel as though he's doing _something_ to help. There's so little any of them can do at this stage and it's only served to feed into the former Lancelot's sinking depression and black moods. Reaching out once more, she caresses Martin's cheek, certain that touch as much as words will help him know they're here and adamant that he feels her presence. Morgana shifts away, moving around to the other side of the bed and taking a seat beside Roxy on the edge of the second bed that had been set there for James and which is currently unoccupied thanks to Eggsy's needling.

 

"But I think it was Leeds in '93 that cemented it," Morgana continues. "For Harry, it was too much like the Rhodes assignment in '86 that he and Merlin were involved in. For Merlin..."

 

She pauses thoughtfully and finds Roxy looking to her with anticipation.

 

"Well, for Merlin, I think it was that he still thought of Martin as his charge," Morgana concludes. "As he does with all of you. But Martin was barely even nineteen at the time and I think it greatly upset Merlin to leave an agent that young out in the field in such a vulnerable state when he knew full well they were capable of retrieving him."

 

"Well why would they have left him?" Roxy wants to know. "If Merlin knew they could get to him, what was the point?"

 

"It was Arthur's decision. I won't say he was entirely wrong; it would have been extremely difficult to retrieve him without compromising any other agent," Morgana says. "It's just that Harry and Merlin were so cocksure at the time, they knew they could manage it. Though, part of me always wondered if Chester wasn't just embarrassed by the outcome of the assignment; Martin had been his proposal, you see."

 

"He was?" Roxy blurts, eyebrows jumping up in surprise.

 

Morgana nods with a thoughtful hum. "Though, I don't think he turned out as Chester had hoped."

 

 

"Thank goodness for small favors," Roxy mutters sourly.

 

The comment draws a chuckle from the Kingsman physician. She could be so like James at times. Currently, she knows the poor girl is wishing _James_  could be a little more like James. But she'd borne the brunt of her uncle's temper with a surprising level of grace - even if it had scared her half to death. Roxy's had so much on her plate in recent months that Morgana wonders if she ought to be getting some kind of therapy herself. At the very least, she can be sure Eggsy is looking after her; that boy is a wonder in that way.

 

Roxy had grown quiet and contemplative, studying her uncle's face as she holds his hand in hers. It's not difficult to tell that she feels responsible, in some way, for Martin being this way. After seeing that footage Merlin had recovered... It had been like watching the footage of Harry at that church all over again. But just as with that, they're all tripping over themselves to take the blame for what's happened. And Morgana's sure that, just as Harry has told them time and time again that none of them were at fault, so too will Martin once he wakes.

 

"I always knew there were things I didn't know about Uncle Martin," Roxy says suddenly. "But I suppose I thought I knew him better than I actually do."

 

"And you do," Morgana assures her.

 

Roxy looks to her with confusion in her eyes.

 

"I can't say that Martin _wasn't_  himself back then," Morgana says. "But he worked very hard to become the person he should have been from the start. That's who you know, and that's what matters. The things that came before you are important, yes, but don't think that not knowing of them means you don't know him. You know him better than nearly anyone else."

 

Roxy doesn't answer, but Morgana doesn't push her to. She's sure the girl will draw her own conclusions regardless of what Morgana tells her. Like so many of them in recent days, she just needs time.

 

* * *

 

Martin has barely moved an inch since he'd woken. He found himself deposited in the bed once more and he feels so defeated he can't even bring himself to return to his lonely corner of the room. Everything hurts. His still-healing injuries scream in protest at their mistreatment at Harry's hands, but that's not even the worst of it.

 

He's not an overly emotional man. Never has been and likely never will be. But currently, it feels like he's drowning in more emotions than he can put a name to. Because James is dead and Harry will die and it's his fault. The depth and enormity of what he feels is terrifying, swallowing him whole and leaving him helpless in the face of it. How is he supposed to handle this? Does he cry? Scream? Pound the walls until his fists bleed?Presently he feels like clawing open his own chest and digging all of it out in an effort to free himself. He doesn't want it. But he doesn't get a choice.

 

It paralyzes him in a way physical pain can't, with no way to suppress it or climb out of the hole it's dragged him down into. It's like being buried alive, stuck down inside this earthen pit with roots and vines binding him in place as the hole is filled in, dirt raining down on top of him. Oppressive. That's the only word he can think to put to it.

 

The sound of the door swinging open catches his attention, but he doesn't bother opening his eyes. If Merlin wants to talk, he'll make that clear.

 

"I know very well that you're not sleeping, so you may as well open your eyes."

 

That's not Merlin, though. Martin's eyes open just enough to level Chester King with a fiery glare, his whole body tense with anger.

 

"That's better," Arthur says, the door closing behind him.

 

He's not alone. At his right is Gehraint, who Martin knows full well is among his inner circle. On his left is a man that Martin isn't familiar with, but can only assume has also tossed his lot in with their traitorous spymaster.

 

"You've had a great deal to say about me, from what I understand," Arthur says as Gehraint locks the door behind them. "And while you've been very forthcoming on that front, you've yet to tell anyone who you truly work for."

 

Even a fool can tell where this is headed. But Martin remains silent, letting Arthur do the talking.

 

"I will give you one opportunity and one opportunity only to tell me the truth," Arthur says as his two Knights move to bracket Martin. "Speak the truth and we may be able to reach some sort of agreement. Fail to do so and no one will ever know what became of you. A mistake during an interrogation isn't preferable, but not terribly uncommon."

 

Martin commits himself to stoney silence. Seconds tick by until Arthur appears to have had enough and his window of opportunity slams shut. With a nod from Arthur, the two Knights haul him to his feet, dragging him from the bed and to the far corner of the room. They hold him in place as Arthur takes his time joining them, brushing past them and to the deep sink located there. Most of their holding cells were equipped with basic necessities, but nearly all of them were included to serve a second, far more insidious purpose than first glance would suggest.

 

Watching Arthur place the stopper and fill the sink, Martin harbors no illisions as to what's about to happen. It should bother him more, he thinks, but it doesn't. In some ways, it's almost a relief. If it means escaping this horrific reality... he'll take the out any way he can get it.

 

When the sink is filled to the brim, the two Knights drag him forward, arms wrenched painfully behind his back. They position him to hover just above the water's surface, waiting for the order like loyal dogs. Though comparing them to loyal dogs is an insult to dogs. Merlin would scowl at that, he thinks.

 

"Anything you wish to say?" Arthur asks him.

 

" _Fuck you_ ," Martin answers.

 

"Very well," Arthur says. "Gehraint, Percival, proceed."

 

Ah, Percival then, he thinks as they submerge him past his shoulders. Almost fitting that he should be killed by his mirror world counterpart. He's not sure what to do now other than to hold his breath and simply wait until he can no longer do so. This feels... familiar, somehow. Though he can't say why. He's struck by an uncanny feeling of deja vu, as though he's been in this position before; facedown in the water and awaiting death.

 

They say death by drowning is supposed to be peaceful, but Martin knows that's the furthest thing from the truth. Anyone who's so much as inhaled a sip of water mistakenly knows just how unpleasant fluid in the lungs can be. Actual drowning, he thinks, can only be that much worse.

 

Just as Martin remembers, Chester King is not a patient man. He feels a knee come up swiftly into still-tender ribs and against his will, he inhales. The moment he does so, he knows it's over, even as he thrashes reflexively in the grasp of his captors. It burns as though he's been set on fire from the inside, which is a strange analogy for drowning in water, he thinks.

 

**Wake up.**

 

Again he hears it, as though someone's face is beside his in the sink full of tap water. Mags, he thinks. It sounds like Mags.

 

**Wake up.**

 

His thrashing begins to slow, his body growing heavy as the lack of oxygen renders him dizzy and forces spots to erupt in bright blotches of color behind his eyelids. No matter how much Roxy may want him to, he can't. He just can't breathe.

 

**Wake up.**

 

James. Is the pain in his chest physical or mental? He doesn't know. He can't breathe. His body jerks, nothing more than a weak spasm by now. He wants to get to James. He's trying, James, he is. He's tried everything he can think of.

 

But he just can't breathe.

 

 

* * *

 

Harry pushes Merlin's wheelchair as quickly as he can, given that the two of them had just tumbled out of bed. If it were nearly anything else, neither of them could be arsed, but Morgana had sent for them. All either of them knows is that something had happened to Martin and now James is in the hall outside the infirmary, pacing and on the verge of another breakdown.

 

As they round the corner - and Harry issues Merlin a quick apology for nearly sending them both toppling over in his haste - they see James is just where they were told, pacing and wringing his hands, muttering to himself anxiously. Harry's own anxiety doubles at the sight of him as they draw close; James hardly even seems to realize they're there. He can't keep going through this. He'd agreed to therapy, had begun to go and had seen some marginal improvement as though he were relieved to be doing something to help himself. All that seems to have gone out the window. This constant yo-yoing of his mental state isn't something sustainable and Harry worries if it keeps on any longer, James may reach a point that he can't come back from.

 

"James?" Merlin calls to him, holding a hand out as they draw up alongside him. "James, look here now. Harry and I are here."

 

It isn't until Merlin grabs hold of James by the wrist that the former Lancelot truly registers their presence. His whole body jerks as though startled and he looks between Merlin and Harry with wide, haunted eyes. Harry moves to his other side, gently taking hold of him by the elbow.

 

"James, why don't you come have a seat?" Harry asks, trying to steer him towards the nearby row of chairs.

 

"No. No, I can't, Harry, Martin is... he was... he..." James babbles, his eyes growing wet as his breathing picks up.

 

"We know, James," Merlin says soothingly. "Harry and I both understand. That's why we're here. Just come have a seat and you can explain it to us."

 

Together they manage to at least get him sitting, though he hardly looks any better for it. Truthfully, neither of them know much of what's going on and given James's fragile mental state, it could be nearly anything. Morgana apparently hadn't had time to explain much, just sending off an orderly to retrieve them at her request. Harry does his best to help calm James in whatever way he can, but by his own admission, Merlin's always had a softer touch with these things. Maybe it's just the fact that all of them have had him in their ears for so long that they've been trained like Pavlov's dogs to relax at the first hint of that brogue. Though, Harry would say it's just because Merlin really is that good.

 

Between them, they manage to calm him enough to get him talking, though he remains pale and shaking.

 

"I was asleep. But the noise woke me, the... the alarms," James relates back to them. "For his blood pressure or... or his oxygen levels or... I don't really know. They were all chiming and he was..."

 

James squeezes his eyes shut, looking as though he were fighting back nausea. Harry frowns, leaning forward in his seat. This doesn't sound reassuring. Had he crashed? Harry knows that Martin had in the beginning a handful of times, but Morgana had assured them he was mending well and recovering. Comatose, yes, but otherwise healing. There shouldn't have been any reason for him to take such a sudden turn for the worse. But then, Harry's not a doctor.

 

"He was just making this... noise. Like he was choking. Or... or like he'd stopped breathing," James says, passing a hand through his hair. "I didn't know what to do."

 

Harry feels a sudden tug of deja vu. Just before Merlin had woken, hadn't he found himself in nearly the same position? He remembered all too well that terrified sinking in his gut before Morgana had assuaged his fears by telling him that what he'd thought was Merlin suffering was, in fact, something positive. He'd been fighting the ventilator, drawn from the depths of his comatose state until his body had fought against the ventilator to draw breath of its own.

 

If this is what James has made it sound as though it is... But Harry stays his tongue. Much as he'd like to reassure James by telling him this is something positive, he can't bring himself to do so. He would never forgive himself if he were wrong. Merlin catches his eye and Harry knows instinctively that they're of the same mind.

 

"I'm sure everything will be fine, James," Merlin says. "Mags knows what she's doing."

 

"... I know," James mumbles, head hanging between his shoulders. "I just... What if he's gone?"

 

Harry's not sure he's ever heard James's voice sound quite so small as it does then. "He's not."

 

"But you don't - "

 

"He's _not_ ," Harry repeats firmly. "Not until anyone says otherwise. You can't sit here and think that he is."

 

James nods numbly at his words and Harry finds himself praying he's right. He knows James hasn't given up. But he's been beaten down to such a low point that he needs them to lean on in order to keep standing. Harry's only too happy to oblige him.

 

They can't be waiting more than half an hour, he thinks, but it feels infinitely longer. At last Morgana emerges, looking tired... but pleased. Harry can feel James quivering beside him as she approaches them.

 

"He's alright," she assures them. "His body was fighting the ventilator. I've removed it and he's breathing on his own now."

 

"What does that mean?" James asks, sounding as though he's trying not to get his hopes up too high.

 

"Well, I'm hesitant to say it with absolute certainty, but I believe this may be a good indicator that we'll see him wake soon," she answers. "At the very least, this is a positive step forward."

 

"So... So this was good," James echoes.

 

"This was good," Morgana affirms with a nod.

 

James sits still for a long few moments, staring at nothing at all as he nods to himself. Then, as though the reality of the situation has settled in, he buries his face in his hands and his shoulders tremble with hiccuping sobs. Not out of sadness, Harry knows, but relief. Morgana rests a hand on the former Lancelot's head, shushing him quietly. They easily dismiss his mumbled apologies for his tears; Harry can't judge him for expressing a relief he knows all too well.

 

It takes some time, but eventually James dries his eyes and Morgana affirms that, yes, he can go see Martin. Harry lingers behind in the doorway with Merlin and Morgana, wishing to afford James some sense of privacy. All the same, Harry's insistent on seeing Martin for himself. With James seated beside him, Martin is free of all the paraphernalia associated with the ventilator, replaced instead by a simple oxygen mask. His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that may not be as easy as it was with mechanical aid, but does so with breaths that are entirely his own.

 

Harry's relief is not nearly so obvious as James's, but all the same, the sight tugs at the worried knot in his chest until it's loosened considerably. But not disappeared.

 

"Will there be any lasting effects when he wakes?" Merlin asks, as though reading Harry's mind.

 

"It's difficult to say. In typical cases such as this, we might expect to see impaired memory and motor skills, changes in personality and behavior, altered control of voluntary movements," Morgana lists slowly. She shakes her head. "But those nanites are a wild card. There's a good chance they may have been able to repair some of that damage, given that those pads were originally designed for head wounds. I'm afraid it's still a waiting game at this point."

 

Merlin nods, his answering hum of recognition thoughtful. Harry has no doubt that Merlin's thoughts are wandering to places out of his depth. He has a good grasp of human anatomy, but this is far more Merlin's arena than his own.

 

"But you do think he'll wake?" Harry asks.

 

Morgana nods. "I do. I just wish I could give you more."

 

Harry glances once more at James. He sits holding Martin's hand and speaks to him softly before brushing a kiss across his brow.

 

It's enough.


	11. catch you catch me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxy has dreamed of falling for as long as she can remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.k.a. MARTIN WAKE YOUR BITCH ASS UP
> 
> so long time no see lol. uhhhh... work's been rough and i've been sick and dealing with some shit so this took a while to crank out. not as good as i had hoped, but maybe i just gotta get back in the groove.

From the moment she'd met him, Roxy has been enamored with Martin. As a child it was because he was different from other adults she knew. He was a bit funny at times and he didn't seem to make friends well, but he listened to her. He understood what she wanted to say even if she hadn't yet developed the vocabulary to express it. Of course she loved her mother and her Uncle James and her Grandmother and Grandfather, but even when they knew what she was saying they didn't understand the way Martin seemed to. 

 

Plus he was good at carrying her and reading her stories and reaching the places she couldn't yet.

 

As an adult, she had learned to love him in different ways. As a mentor and a father figure. As someone she could always rely on to catch her even when she thought herself incapable of falling. She'd learned to appreciate the things he didn't say and the subtlety of his actions. She had learned how to make him blush by straightening his tie and telling him how handsome he looked that day. She had learned the depth of his love for her, even if he couldn't always bring himself to express it, and to what lengths he was willing to go for her sake.

 

Sitting in a sterilized room in Statesman's medical wing, Roxy almost wishes she hadn't.

 

It seems that every time she closes her eyes she sees the footage Merlin had recovered from Martin's spectacles. She can hear the Woman in Red threaten to come after her. And then... Remaining conscious for that kind of feat shouldn't have been possible and yet Martin had managed. All through inch after agonizing inch of the blade carving through muscle and tissue and bone as he'd moved hand over hand towards his foe.

 

All because he would do anything to protect her. Roxy almost resents that fact. She should be thankful he'd survived but all she can think is that it never should have gone as far as it had in the first place. It never should have come to this. As much as she knows and understands the dangers of being a Kingsman, it never should have gone so horribly wrong.

 

The tips of her fingers trace the thin scars on his fingers and palm as she holds his left hand in hers. They've healed over nicely by now, the nanites having done their job well. Of course they'll have to wait until he's awake to asses whether there's any nerve damage, being that the claymore's edge had cut straight to bone. Just another one of many things they have to wait upon.

 

Although Roxy would never say she had grown tired with her daily bedside vigils—that would imply she didn't truly care for her uncle and there couldn't be anything further from the truth—she can admit a certain kind of weariness. Nearly three months of sitting in this room for hours on end. She's been through more books than she can count. She'd been insisting to the others that reading to him would help, but she finds now that even she isn't sure. Can he hear them there, wherever he is? Can their voices reach those depths?

 

She isn't sure. She truly wants to believe she's right, but absolutes are never something she's been prone to deal in. Martin is supposed to be getting better and she doesn't doubt that he is, but to what level will he be able to recover?

 

"Morgana thinks you'll have a difficult time adjusting," Roxy says, still tracing his scars. "Because of your new... disabilities."

 

The word makes her feel ill as she stumbles over it. But Lucy had made it fairly clear—even fully recovered, Martin would only regain limited use of his right arm. The damage had just been too severe. Martin both relies on and takes great pride in his agility, his flexibility, his ability to be quick and nimble. Even she knows that these things had represented freedom for him when he'd had none. Robbing him of that feels indescribably cruel. Life may not have any reason to be fair but she has to find it all unfair just the same.

 

As quiet and respectable as he is, Martin still has a ferocious stubborn streak. It's not difficult to imagine that this sort of news will be met with denial. She knows Martin will do his best to prove Morgana's diagnosis wrong. He'll do his best to overcome it because he's used to being able to. He's used to the idea that if he just keeps going and just keeps pushing, the wall will eventually give way. But this case isn't so simple.

 

"I think she may be right," Roxy admits quietly. "I know it will be frustrating and that you won't wish to accept it. I don't think I would wish to either. But even still... I know you can. We'll all be here for you, however you need us."

 

His hand is between both of hers as she presses her cheek to his knuckles. His skin is still cool to the touch, but with the ventilator removed he'd only seemed to be improving. Even with as many things still needing to be assessed once he wakes, she's been overcome by the news that it seemed he would, in fact, wake. James had come to her the week prior looking completely wrung out but with a spark in his eyes she hadn't seen in months. Telling her how Martin had come off the ventilator, he looked as though he'd had life breathed back into him.

 

Still, waking will just be the first of many steps. A monumental step to be sure, but the first none the less. Roxy isn't pleased with the thought of having to see him in pain—because she knows it will be painful, she has Merlin as a prime example—but recovery isn't something that comes pain free. They'll just have to do what they can to ease it along the way. Whatever part of him is broken or needs fixing, whatever seems too difficult for him to overcome, they'll help him. Even in those times when he inevitably won't _want_ their help, he'll have them.

 

"Mummy asked after you. I'm sure Uncle James told you," Roxy tells him. "Merlin arranged for them to meet again with Arthur's blessing and I think it's done Uncle James a great deal of good. He hasn't seemed this much like himself in ages."

 

She allows her eyes to drift shut, if just for a moment. It had been a bittersweet sort of reunion. Amanda Morton could never be angry with the fact that her twin brother was actually still among the living. That didn't mean she wasn't wounded by their deception. She had been hurt to find Roxy had held her tongue for over all this time and that James hadn't come to see her himself. But all those wrinkles seemed to smooth themselves out when she saw the state her brother was in. 

 

James and her mother had always insisted that twins share a special bond and seeing them embrace in that moment, Roxy knew it to be true. James hadn't needed to say a word; Amanda knew he was suffering because she felt it as deeply as he did. He had been so thoroughly raked across the coals in body and spirit, but being permitted to see his sister again seemed to mitigate some of that pain. It was only when Amanda had asked where Martin was that James found himself unable to speak. Roxy had taken over and explained to her mother as best she was able while still being discreet.

 

The news of Martin's injuries and subsequent coma only served to deepen Amanda's worry for her brother—and for Roxy as well. For all the times she herself had been hurt, Amanda remained no less gifted when it came to consoling others. But beyond her sympathy for their grief, she expressed a sadness all her own; Martin had been a firm, steady presence in Roxy's upbringing that she had always appreciated. Unlike her husband, Amanda had always done her best to understand Martin, never questioning James's love for him.

 

"She was very sad to hear you were hurt. She's hoping to be allowed to visit once we've moved you to Scotland with everyone else," Roxy sighs, thinking back to her mother's request. "You'll love it there. It's so green and the land stretches out for miles with no one—"

 

Her sentence comes to an abrupt end as she feels a twitch against her palm. The hairs on the back of her neck rise as she waits to see if perhaps she'd just imagined it. But a few moments later she feels it again: Martin had moved. Letting out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, Roxy quickly looks to his face, holding his hand tightly.

 

The process is slow, but at that moment time seems irrelevant. She knows she's sitting well over an hour as she observes all of this but she couldn't care less. Every little thing is one step closer to having him awake again. His hand squeezing hers, his eyes moving beneath closed lids, his lips moving as he breathes. His eyelids flutter briefly now and again before she hears a soft sound escape his lips. 

 

And then his eyes are open.

 

Dark eyes blink slowly as he undoubtedly tries to gain his bearings, his mouth working despite the lack of sound it makes. He frowns and begins to shift in his bed, only to find his own body immensely uncooperative. Even so small an action seems to require strength he doesn't have and she can easily read the confusion written in his features. She doesn't even realize she's been crying until a soft, shuddering sob slips out of her and his eyes sluggishly find her.

 

"Roxanne...?"

 

His voice is hardly more than a rusty whisper and yet she doesn't remember the last time she'd heard anything so wonderful. He doesn't seem to quite understand but she can't find it in her to speak. She's nearly crushing his hand in hers as she presses his knuckles to her lips as though in an effort to keep herself from letting another sound loose. The brush of his fingers against her cheek catches her attention. His hand had been close enough to her face that he could try to wipe at the tears falling down her cheeks, the action seeming nearly instinctive.

 

That's the moment she can't hold herself back anymore. Leaving her seat and curling up at his side, Roxy buries her face in his left shoulder, sobs coming on far too fast for her to stop them. They shake her whole body as she cries in a way she hadn't done since she was a child. It's difficult trying to hug him as tightly as she can while trying not to hurt him, but she seems to manage. She feels his fingers weakly stroking her hair as he quietly begs her not to cry. He hates seeing her cry, she knows. He always has.

 

"What's wrong?" he asks, having to clear his throat several times to get the words out.

 

Roxy shakes her head, trying to control her tears long enough to give him a proper explanation. Of course he doesn't understand that they've been waiting for him to wake up for months—waiting to see if he even would. He has no idea how close they'd been to losing him. She turns to kiss his cheek, knowing she should explain but needing a few moments just to have this.

 

"I missed you so much," Roxy tells him.

 

"Did I go somewhere?" he asks.

 

The question pulls a teary laugh from her as she pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. Did he go somewhere, he asks. He really does have no idea.

 

"You were hurt on the bridge. Do you remember?" Roxy asks him.

 

"The bridge..." he murmurs. He breathes quietly for a few moments. "...in Nepal?"

 

She swallows thickly and shakes her head. "No, Nepal was years ago with just you and Uncle James. I'm talking about the Tower Bridge in London. Kingsman was attacked and we were trying to see if anyone else had survived. You were stabbed... and you fell off the bridge into the Thames. Do you remember any of it? Any of it at all?"

 

Even as she speaks she can see his confusion only growing deeper. He doesn't remember. But Morgana had said it was a possibility he wouldn't. And he's only just woken, it's not that strange for him to be disoriented. It's her own eagerness getting the best of her.

 

"It's alright," Roxy assures him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "You don't have to try to remember right now. What's important is that you're awake."

 

"How long...?"

 

"It's been nearly three months now," Roxy tells him.

 

He blinks slowly. "That's... a long time."

 

She nods. "It is. But you needed it."

 

"I worried you."

 

She nods. Does she tell him just how close it had been? How many times he'd flatlined when Warren had struggled to stabilize him? Not right now, she decides. That's not something she wants to focus on when she has him awake and talking again.

 

"Sorry," Martin murmurs.

 

"Don't be," Roxy assures him, shaking her head. "You're awake now, that's what matters."

 

But it occurs to her then that she shouldn't be the only one to know. Lucy should be called to look him over and James will want to see him as soon as possible. She squeezes his hand once before rising from her seat and pulling her mobile out.

 

"I'm just going to let Morgana and Uncle James know you're awake," Roxy tells him. "I'll be right ba—"

 

"James?"

 

The sudden declaration had emerged from him in a shocked and squeaky wheeze. His eyes are wide and focused on her as though he's not sure he's heard her correctly.

 

"James is alive?" Martin asks.

 

Roxy feels her mouth go dry. Lucy had warned them, she reminds herself yet again, that these gaps in his memory wouldn't be unusual. She supposes she just isn't as prepared as she'd thought she would be. Carefully smoothing her expression into something softer, she leans over and sits herself on the side of his bed.

 

"He is. I promise," Roxy tells him, taking his hand in hers and texting with her free hand. "He's coming right now to see you."

 

"How?" Martin asks, his expression weary and guarded.

 

"You found him," Roxy says with a smile. "Do you remember V Day? Right after I earned my title?"

 

He hesitates but ultimately nods slowly. She wonders which parts he remembers and which he doesn't. But as much as she may wish to find out, now isn't the time. 

 

"You found him when we were clearing out the captives in Richmond Valentine's cells," Roxy reminds him. "He'd been held there since we'd thought he'd been killed in Argentina."

 

Her words seem to rouse something as he closes his eyes in a deep frown, murmuring quietly to himself. "He was... James was hurt... He's hurt. I have to—"

 

Roxy feels a sudden stab of panic as he moves as though he were about to rise from his bed and she hurriedly places her palm on the center of his chest. It's enough to keep him where he is at least long enough for her to explain.

 

"Don't try to sit up! It's alright. He was hurt, but he's fine now," Roxy tells him. Well, perhaps not _fine_ , but he's not beaten bloody like he was when they'd first found him. "Uncle James will be here soon, so please just try to relax."

 

Martin doesn't seem to be able to recall all of it himself, but as his expression shifts back to something more neutral, Roxy knows at the very least he trusts that she's telling the truth. He nods as he gradually eases back into a calmer state, processing the memory she'd just reminded him of. Fearing he may try to sit up again at some point, Roxy fiddles with the controls on the bed until he's propped up and mostly sitting. She's only just gotten him settled when the door swings open. Of course Lucy would have been closer than James and standing in the doorway, she looks as though she'd sprinted from wherever it was she'd been.

 

But as ever, Lucy is quick to compose herself, meeting Roxy's eye with a slight nod of her head as she proceeds into the room. Knowing she'll need to examine her patient, Roxy steps back to give her space but is sure to remain within Martin's line of sight.

 

"Mags...?" Martin croaks, blinking blearily at her.

 

The Kingsman physician wears a fond smile as she reaches out and touches her hand to his cheek. Roxy watches Martin's eyes slide shut as he presses into her touch, seemingly made content by her mere presence. Lucy has often been referred to as the mother of the organization and Roxy has seen in several instances just why that is. Looking at her now as she holds Martin's face in her hands, she can't say the older woman hasn't earned her reputation. Knowing what Martin's biological mother had been like, Roxy can't help but think perhaps Lucy has filled that role for Martin more than she'd first thought.

 

"The very same," Lucy says, greeting him as though it were any other morning. "You gave us quite a scare, you know."

 

Martin hums softly in recognition "Mm... A bridge..."

 

"Yes, you've been through quite an ordeal," Lucy tells him. "And as such, I need to examine you and ask you a few questions."

 

Roxy doesn't bother holding back a smile when she hears a thoroughly displeased sounding grunt from Martin at that announcement. He's never been one for being poked and prodded. Though if he must, it will be by Morgana and no one else.

 

"Well I can see you're still as wonderful a patient as ever," Lucy says good-naturedly.

 

Roxy sits back and watches Lucy conduct her examination; testing everything from his reflexes to his memory. It's the latter that worries Roxy the most. If memory were a road, Martin's would be littered with potholes. He doesn't remember the bridge. He doesn't remember his last birthday. He doesn't remember which succulents he'd named after James in his grief. He doesn't remember the day he nominated her for the title of Lancelot.

 

Just bits and pieces, here and there. The gaps seem to confuse him as he tries to draw those memories up from the fog he'd lost them in. 

 

"Don't worry yourself so much about it now," Lucy tells him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "A muddled memory is a far better result than most people with ten minutes of oxygen deprivation get."

 

Even this statement seems to bewilder him. "Why wasn't I breathing?"

 

"You fell into the Thames," Roxy supplies. "Do you remember when I told you a short time ago?"

 

Martin frowns and doesn't offer an answer. Lucy gives her a sympathetic glance as Roxy swallows hard. 

 

"It will get better with time," Lucy says. "We just need to be pati—"

 

"Martin?"

 

As he stands in the doorway, sweaty and disheveled, James looks as though he had run to the Statesman compound as opposed to taking a car. For all Roxy knows, he very well may have done just that. He seems to hardly believe his eyes—or is perhaps afraid to. As he steps into the room, Roxy can see the wetness of his eyes and the shaking in his hands. 

 

"Oh my God, you really are awake," he breathes out.

 

"Overslept," Martin answers hoarsely.

 

"Just overslept," James echoes. "Of course. Just overslept..."

 

He sits on the side of the bed, seeming surprised when Martin reaches for him. James holds his partner's hand in his own, thumb brushing idly over the ridges of his knuckles as though he hadn't done it a thousand times before. It's as though he has to hold himself back as he dips down and presses his lips against Martin's, perhaps afraid of being too eager, too rough. Martin says something that Roxy can't hear but which draws a watery laugh out of James.

 

"No, I don't care about morning breath, you stupid, beautiful man," James answers him.

 

He presses his face to the pillow beside Martin's head as his shoulders tremble with overwhelmed sobs. Just as with her, Martin seems incredibly perplexed by this reaction, as though he still doesn't understand exactly what's going on. Regardless, he clumsily manages to get his arm around James so he can stroke his fingers along the nape of his neck. James turns his face inward towards Martin's and breathes out in a shaky exhale.

 

"I thought we'd lost you," James tells him.

 

"I was just gone for a little while," Martin replies. "But... I missed you."

 

"You did?" James asks, sounding surprised.

 

Roxy shares in that sentiment. It's not as though he'd been aware of time passing while he was in a coma. Right? 

 

"Had a nightmare. I was... I was married to a woman," Martin says. He sighs loudly, shutting his eyes as he frowns deeply. "Ohhhhh it was awful, James. I wanted to... wanted to die it was just... the _worst_."

 

James sits up straight, his tears gone as he now struggles to contain his laughter. "I had no idea you had such strong feelings regarding heterosexuality."

 

Roxy presses a hand over her mouth as Martin declares, as loudly as he can, "I'm not doing it. Ever."

 

"Well, I should hope not," James says. "I rather like having you to myself."

 

"Then I should be... James-sexual or something," Martin rambles on. "On account of... I only like you. No one else."

 

Now none of them bother hiding it and James laughs outright, still wiping tears off his face. Roxy knows well enough by now that Martin has a remarkably low tolerance for sedatives, pain medication and alcohol as well as a remarkably high tendency for things to go tits up whenever they're in play. Though from the stories she's heard, this looks to be the worst case yet.

 

"'s not funny," Martin grouses in a raspy voice. 

 

"I'm sorry," James apologizes, smiling broadly as he touches a hand to his partner's cheek. "But I'd forgotten how silly you can get when you're medicated."

 

"I'm not being silly," Martin insists. "It's very... very serious."

 

"You're right," James says gently, his words full of fondness. "It's very important."

 

Lucy chooses that moment to chime in, clipboard held behind her crossed arms. "Someone ought to phone Arthur, so I'll go ahead and give the three of you some privacy."

 

Watching her leave the room, Roxy is grateful for the opportunity for the three of them to be alone, though she knows Lucy would have preferred to stay. But this is something they just... need right now. They need the chance to shift gears towards something resembling normal for them. She knows Lucy will have a private moment with Martin when she can. For now, with just the three of them, with Martin awake and talking, she feels as though something broken is finally able to begin mending itself. 

 

Looking back to her uncles, she can hardly believe the change in James. Sitting before Martin now, he seems to have regained that vibrance that he'd been so lacking over these past few months. She'd hate to say he's _glowing_ but that's the closest approximation to what she's seeing. All of this just reminds her to be thankful Martin had survived for more than one reason; if he hadn't she knows James wouldn't have lasted. But he had and there's no point in dwelling on the dark could-have-been's. 

 

Now they can join the rest of the fold. Lucy had stayed behind with them to look after Martin while Harry and the others began making the transition to their new home, but it was a difficult time for all of them. The sooner they make the move, the better things will be. Still, she thinks to herself as she watches her uncles, it's down to Lucy's decision as to when Martin is clear to make the journey.

 

"How are you feeling, Darling?" James asks, carding his fingers through his partner's hair.

 

"...funny," is what Martin settles on. "Everything's heavy. Doesn't feel right..."

 

"That's the medication. I know you don't care for it, but it's rather important for the time being," James tells him. "Are you in any pain?"

 

"Mm... Don't think so..." Martin murmurs. "Should I be?"

 

"Well, we'd prefer not," James says.

 

Martin closes his eyes as he inhales slowly. "Thought you were gone."

 

"Gone?" James echoes.

 

"He'd forgotten we'd found you at Valentine's compound," Roxy supplies.

 

"No," Martin says. "No, it was... I couldn't convince them. Tried. They wouldn't go get you from... from Argentina. And you were gone."

 

James wears the same confused frown as Roxy when their eyes meet. She has no idea what he's trying to say. Is this something that had happened back then, something he'd never told them about?

 

"Couldn't make Harry stay either... Told him not to go to... the church. Wouldn't listen. He was... he was angry," Martin continues to mumble. "And someone else was me. But it was wrong. All of it... and it's... was my fault. I couldn't stop him and you were..."

 

"Martin," James says firmly, holding his face in his hands. "It's alright. You're just... I think you're just a bit confused right now. Everything's fine. I'm fine. We all are. So let's not think about any of that now."

 

Roxy hears Martin hum something in confirmation, though the actual words are too quiet for her to make out. Though he'd just woken, he already seems to be fading into sleep once again. As much as she wants him to stay awake and stay with them, Roxy knows it's more important that he recovers and to do that he has to rest. At least now she knows he's going to wake up again. Despite this, Martin seems to realize he's drifting off because he blinks quickly as though to rouse himself.

 

"Am I still here?" he asks.

 

"No one's going anywhere," Roxy assures him. "Don't worry about that. If you need to sleep..."

 

"No," he says. His dark eyes regard her and James with a strange sort of bleary determination. "I want to stay where you are."

 

The statement is quiet but insistent and Roxy can't help the way her throat grows tight when he says it. She may not entirely understand what he's saying, but the sentiment is clear. 

 

"Then why don't we all have a bit of a lie down?" James proposes. 

 

Rising briefly, he maneuvers the single chair at Martin's bedside well out of the way before pushing the bed that had been set up for him. He pushes until it's flush with Martin's hospital bed and then sits himself on the side and unlaces his shoes. Roxy catches on to his plan and sits at the foot of the bed and does the same. Martin watches them with droopy eyes as they meanuever themselves back onto the bed. Roxy lies on her side, facing Martin as James takes his place behind her, placing her between them. They're careful to give him his space, not wanting to hurt him in any way, but they press as close as they can within that boundary.

 

"What do you think, Darling? Will this make it easier?" James asks.

 

Martin nods slowly, his hands sliding across the line where the two beds meet until he reaches them.

 

Roxy remembers when they used to do this. She remembers being a little girl waking fresh from a nightmare and running full tilt to her uncles' bedroom with tears staining her cheeks. For as long as she can remember, she's always dreamed of falling. Just tumbling through a deep black void, unable to tell up from down, never knowing when she might hit the ground. It terrified her. Even upon waking when she realized she'd gone nowhere at all, it was too much for her to handle alone. She'd crawl into the bed, wedging herself between them until they roused enough to make space to accommodate her. And James would whisper soothing things and Martin would rub her back and eventually everything was right again and she could sleep.

 

"We haven't done this since you were little," James remarks.

 

She never stopped dreaming of falling. It's just that at some point, the dreams began to end differently. At some point someone began to catch her. She would never see a face, she'd simply feel a pair of strong arms holding her tight enough so that she was sure she couldn't possibly fall. They never spoke a word and she never saw a face, but she knew who it was. After all, she'd only begun to dream of being caught after Martin had entered her life.

 

Roxy is grown, now. Not above needing support, but old enough to stand on her own two feet planted firmly on the ground. Watching Martin gradually drift off to sleep, she knows he has some falling to do. And when he does, she decides, this time  _she'll_ be the one to catch _him_.


	12. gethsemane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _Testify allegiance with more puncture wounds than Jesus, oh yeah!_  
>  _Every statue's weeping honey and it makes my sight go funny_  
>  _Cause I'm over-sympathetic and I can't control myself_  
>  _Leave that painful memory in the Garden of Gethsemane, oh yeah..._  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i arise from the grave with an update

In the time since Martin had first woken, the moments where he's actually been awake have been difficult to piece together. It's part of the reason why he hates painkillers of this strength—he's never in his right mind when he's on them and consciousness is an infrequent visitor. Thankfully, today Mags had opted to dial him back on his dosage to offer him a brief spell of clarity. Martin's sure this is the first time he's been clear headed at all.

 

He knows it must be because the sight of the man just now stepping into the room doesn't send him into a fit. James had told him a short time ago that they'd tried to explain to him that Harry was alive on multiple occasions but he'd been too gone on his medication to believe them. Seeing Harry in the doorway now, he can still hardly believe it; the hurried beeping of the heart monitor and the sudden tightness in his chest are proof of that. But he knows this is no dream or spectre conjured up by his addled mind and he struggles for something approaching composure. There are a million things he could say now, but what he ultimately decides on is likely not what would be many people's first choice when greeting a friend and colleague recently back from the grave.

 

"Congratulations on your promotion," Martin says, his voice still somewhat rusty.

 

Harry's eyebrows rise marginally above the rims of his spectacles before he dips his head in acknowledgement, the barest of smiles on his face. "Not how I would have liked it to happen, but the sentiment is appreciated."

 

He lingers at the door with his hands in his pockets, almost as though he isn't sure he should enter. He can hardly be blamed considering the last handful of times he'd tried, Martin had been reduced to a sobbing mess. Harry has never been forward with his emotions—something they've always had in common—so Martin can only imagine how uncomfortable their new Arthur must have been in that situation. Frankly, he's rather glad he can only imagine it and that the actual memories themselves have been lost in the heavy fog of medication.

 

"From what I've heard, you're doing a fine job of it," Martin tells him. "Regardless of how you... ah..."

 

This is one of a handful of problems he's learning to deal with. Not only is his memory shot, but he frequently loses his train of thought in the middle of speaking. He fumbles for words he had mere moments ago and struggles to string together even the simplest of sentences. But he's... learning. Slowly. Even if it frustrates him beyond belief, he knows he should be thankful he'd even lived. Patience, as they've all told him. He just needs patience.

 

"Well, we'll see if that assessment of my performance holds up," Harry says, sparing him from struggling to finish his sentence. Finally, he moves away from the door, slowly coming to sit in the chair beside Martin's bed. He gives Martin a long, searching look and try as he might, Martin can't seem to place the emotions he sees in his sole remaining eye. "Martin, I can't begin to tell you how good it is to see you again."

 

"Likewise," Martin murmurs.

 

Undoubtedly many people would find it strange that Harry offers his hand in a situation like this. But to Martin, a handshake seems entirely normal. He clasps Harry's hand in his own, finding himself surprised somehow by the warmth of the other man's palm against his. It seems almost ridiculous that he'd needed this to reaffirm that Harry is whole and hale before him, needed to feel the firm grip of his hand to confirm that he's made of flesh and blood and not mere memory.

 

"For a moment," Martin tells him, "I wasn't sure you'd be solid."

 

"Have I proven mortal enough for your satisfaction?" Harry asks.

 

If only Harry knew what he was asking. That bullet had proven him mortal in a way Martin had never imagined it could. Harry isn't any less susceptible to death or injury than the rest of them, yet somehow Valentine's bullet had brought Martin to the realization that he'd never actually thought Harry would ever be killed in the line of duty. It was always one of those distant possibilities, those things which happen to other people. Death was an eventuality for when they were all old and grey, and even then confined to the far off realm of 'someday.'

 

Harry had been a constant presence in his life since he was a foolish, misguided boy of eighteen. Moving on without him had been... difficult. To suddenly have him back conjures up emotions that he's not sure he could explain if he tried.

 

"For the time being," Martin answers with a faint smile. "I just... can't believe you survived."

 

"Neither could I, for a time," Harry admits as he leans back in his seat. "There are times when it's still difficult to believe. I'd imagine you're experiencing something similar."

 

"Somewhat," Martin tells him. "Up until now I haven't truly been able to... to think on it."

 

"I suppose that's shouldn't be surprising," Harry agrees with him. He shifts in his seat, almost uncomfortably, crossing one leg over the other. "Mags would like to reduce your dosages, but that will depend on how you manage today. I wasn't supposed to tell you that, since she believes you're apt to lie about your pain levels, but I think you can be trusted to use the information responsibly."

 

"I wasn't aware you had taken such a keen interest in my medical care," Martin teases him.

 

Apparently this is the wrong thing to say. Harry's demeanor, already cautious, becomes stiff and serious. Martin blinks slowly as he watches the other man's jaw tic in agitation and wonders just why Harry's behaving so oddly. Of course, the last time he'd seen Harry had been before he'd had a bullet in his brain. That might have something to do with it. He can hardly expect Harry to be the same man as he was when Martin had last seen him—no matter how much he may want it. He'd been through an unimaginable level of trauma and to expect him to be precisely the same as he'd always been is impractical. Martin feels selfish just for thinking it, for wishing that Harry would just be Harry, that he would be the one constant when so much has changed.

 

"I take an interest in the well being of all my knights," Harry replies slowly. "But in this case, I must admit that there are other factors."

 

"...I'm not sure I understand," Martin admits.

 

Harry sucks in a slow, deep breath. He seems to age, somehow, as he exhales, exhaustion appearing to drape itself over him like a shawl.

 

"It should have been me on that bridge, Martin. Not you," Harry says, his words weighted with guilt.

 

Ah. So that's it. Martin knows precisely where this conversation is headed and he's in no mood to have it. Frankly, he's not certain he even has the energy to spare. Harry has always been the sort to take the weight of the world on his shoulders for the simple fact that he truly is that hard on himself. But Martin isn't about to let him try to make this his fault.

 

"Don't," he replies simply, his tone warning Harry not to take it any further.

 

Harry shakes his head at the dismissal, his expression hard and unmoving. "Merlin recovered the footage from your spectacles. We all saw what happened and we all heard who she called for."

 

"You weren't there; I was," Martin corrects him. "It doesn't matter that she had been after you initially, it was clear any Kingsman was a target."

 

"Even still," Harry says, "it was me she truly wanted. It should have been me there to oppose her. You stood in my place and you're here now because of it."

 

"I'm here because of my own choices. The rest doesn't matter."

 

"It does matter," Harry snaps suddenly. "Because this isn't some broken bone or scuffed knee or some social faux pas that can be righted with the wave of a hand. I know Morgana has briefed you on this, Martin, just as I know you couldn't stand to hear it."

 

The words are enough to make his stomach turn. Lucy has never been one to sugar-coat anything and this had been no exception. Yet there had been a degree of guarded hesitation present in her affect as she'd sat with him. That alone told him he wasn't going to like what he heard. Despite her discomfort with what she'd had to relay to him, she'd been no less honest with him as she'd explained the severity of his injuries and the lengthy rehabilitation that awaited him. These things he had been able to surmise on his own and though he hadn't been particularly thrilled by the idea, it was at the very least something manageable. 

 

It had been what she'd saved for last to tell him. It was a difficult pill to swallow being told that the damage left behind by the claymore meant he would only regain partial use of his right arm. The nimble acrobatics he favored so greatly in his field work would be out of the question. He'd certainly never hold a sword again—not in his right hand, at least, he'd stubbornly corrected her. A confrontation that had lasted less than five minutes had nearly killed him and left him crippled; it's almost laughable how insane it is.

 

Even knowing this, Martin isn't quite ready to resign himself to that outcome. Perhaps foolishly, he clings to the hope that the odds may yet fall in his favor and that with time and physical therapy, he may see better results than those projected. It's what he'd been telling himself since he'd spoken with Lucy this morning, though fear and doubt creep along the edges of his thoughts all the same. 

 

The point is that whatever had come of it, the outcome of the confrontation on that bridge had been a result of his own choices. And given the opportunity, he wouldn't choose any differently a second time. Not with what had been at stake.

 

"You were halfway around the world recovering from a bullet to the head and suffering from amnesia," Martin reminds him, standing firm on his point. "Even if you'd been there, you would have been in no fit state to... to, uh... to...."

 

"If it could have prevented this, I'd rather have done it all the same," Harry insists, taking advantage of his momentary lapse in his train of thought.

 

Martin blames the drugs for the way his temper flares uncharacteristically as he nearly shouts at his former mentor.

 

"I don't care if she was calling for Harry Hart or Jesus Christ, I never would have let you within ten feet of—"

 

Not realizing he'd become rather animated in his agitation, he finds his words cut off as though ripped from his lungs. White hot, burning pain engulfs his right side as spots flood his vision and ringing fills his ears. He'd made a terrible mistake trying to sit up; he'd moved far too quickly, pulling at sutures and staples and still knitting flesh and bone. But he'd been intent on wringing Harry's neck to get his point across if he'd needed to. He never stopped to consider whether or not he'd be able to.

 

Awareness filters back in slowly, and with it comes the realization that the painkillers he so detests may be more of a necessity than he'd care to admit. The right side of his chest throbs with a constant, lancing pain that makes it difficult to focus on anything else. It hurts. Christ, it hurts so much he can't even breathe. The sound of a pathetic, high-pitched wheeze tells him he is breathing, though it sounds as though he's hearing it from some third person's perspective, far removed from his own body. He tries to be still as best he can, despising the fact that this is what the medication had been protecting him from. He hates it. Hates that his body is so broken, that he's so weak. If he'd just been stronger...

 

It's only as he's finally settling that he realizes he's caught Harry's hand in a death grip. He doesn't remember reaching out for him, but he must have at some point without realizing. If there's one thing he's sure of, however, it's that he's crushing the other man's fingers, though Harry doesn't appear to be at all concerned by that fact.

 

"I think perhaps it's time I fetched Mags," Harry says, his voice low.

 

"No," Martin croaks hurriedly. "Not yet. Just... I'm alright. Just a while longer."

 

Harry seems to debate this internally for approximately half a minute before ultimately nodding his head. He's clearly wary after that utter spectacle, but knowing Martin isn't likely to have a moment of lucidity like this again anytime soon seems enough to sway him. For several long moments, Martin continues to simply lie there and breathe, trying to reclaim his sense of equilibrium. He's so tired. Just that simple act of trying to sit up had sapped him of any energy he'd had. But he's not done with Harry just yet.

 

"You're a shit swordsman," Martin mumbles.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"You're a shit swordsman," Martin repeats, louder this time. "That's why I wouldn't have allowed you near her. You'd be a... a minor inconvenience at best. Hardly buy us so much as half a minute..."

 

Harry laughs, the noise brief and tinged with bitter amusement. "At the very least I will say swordsmanship is one skill in which you have me outclassed."

 

This is something that's been weighing heavily on his mind, Martin can tell. Admittedly, were their positions reversed, Martin is sure he'd be taking a stance very similar to Harry's. Regardless of that fact, Harry's attempts to convince Martin that he is to blame have been fruitless and Martin intends to keep it that way. Harry sighs softly, looking far more tired than he had when he had walked in the room.

 

"I'm sorry, Martin," he says. "I wish there had been some way for me to prevent this."

 

"Stop talking like you're at my funeral," Martin grouses. "I'm not dead."

 

"Through no small miracle," Harry reminds him.

 

"So stop," Martin says insistently. "Because it wasn't just you, it was... she was going to go after them. James and Roxanne. And I couldn't... I couldn't let her get..."

 

He's still fuzzy on some of the details, but that he remembers quite clearly. Failing to halt her would have meant allowing her to to go after the people most important to him. She would have done to them what she'd done to him. Or worse.

 

"So just... don't. Please," Martin tells him.

 

The length of a few heartbeats passes before Harry simply responds with, "I understand."

 

The brief squeeze of his hand speaks more to Martin than his words do. Harry's not dropping it, not completely, but he knows the topic has reached an end at least for today. It's enough for Martin to relax somewhat and try to focus on blocking out the pain in his shoulder. He closes his eyes, just for a minute or two, he tells himself. Though apparently it's more than just a minute or two because when he next opens his eyes, Lucy has seemingly appeared in the room out of thin air. Blinking slowly, he watches her connect his IV line to a bag of clear fluid which she hangs from the pole beside his bed. He knows well enough by now what this means; back to the hazy fog of pain killers.

 

"Fuck," he mumbles.

 

"Language," Lucy tuts at him. "You're lucky I've kept your dosages lowered even this long. I hardly leave you boys alone for an hour and you're already getting yourself worked into a tizzy."

 

"Sorry about that, Mags," Harry chimes in.

 

"I can't say I wasn't expecting it," Lucy admits as she completes her task and places her hands on her hips. She looks down at Martin, her expression softening marginally. "You should feel that working soon enough."

 

"Too soon, I think," Martin says quietly, already feeling the pain of breathing beginning to ease.

 

There's some shuffling and conversation about as he feels himself gradually sinking back beneath the protective blanket of medication. His head grows fuzzy, thoughts coming to him sluggishly and as much as he hates this fact, the relief from the stabbing pain in his shoulder is a blessing. Martin could very easily slide back down the slope into the Land of Nod—and nearly does so until a thought grabs hold of him.

 

"Harry?" he blurts.

 

He forces his eyes open and does his best to focus on the man in question who has risen to his feet and seems to be preparing to leave.

 

"Yes?" Harry asks, sounding surprised Martin is still awake.

 

"Would you... Could you stay?" Martin asks slowly, having to concentrate mightily to simply get the words out. "Just a few minutes longer..."

 

He can see Harry is watching him carefully, his head no doubt filled with some very complex thoughts. But Martin's far too tired now to consider what they may be. What matters most is that Harry nods his head and reclaims his seat.

 

"Of course."

 

Perhaps it's a rather childish request, one grown man asking another to remain until he's fallen asleep, but Martin can't help but fear he'll wake to find this all to be a dream. He's had so many of them it's not as though it's out of the question. Regardless of how ridiculous his dreams may seem when he tries to explain them to anyone else, they certainly seem very real to him. Having to find Harry still deceased in the waking world isn't something he wants.

 

But no, no. This is real. This has to be real. This time he's not dreaming it.

 

"Harry?" he mumbles.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Are you still here?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry pauses briefly, unsettled by the thread of desperation in the question.

 

"I'm still here, Martin."

 

The answer seems to bring him some relief as he mumbles something unintelligible and draws closer to sleep. Harry already knows Martin had dreamed of him previously and so his inquiry makes sense... but Harry finds himself hoping sleep will find the younger man soon. It should touch him to find Martin had missed him so terribly—and in many ways it does—but right then Harry doesn't feel as though that should be the case.

 

He knows it's ridiculous to expect himself to have been in London on that bridge or to have been in any shape to face the woman who had sought him out. He knows this. Yet it doesn't negate the cloying feeling of guilt that comes with the reality of the situation. Regardless of who had been the one to confront her, Harry would feel guilt, but this case in particular...

 

Martin has long outgrown the role of Harry's protégé. For many years now he has stood as Harry's equal, rather than a green agent needing guidance. But no matter how much time has passed, no matter how many years have come and gone, Harry can't completely shrug off the mantle of mentor. He and Merlin had taken responsibility for Martin when he had first come to them and he supposes he'll _always_  feel responsible for him in some sense.

 

When he'd joined Kingsman and taken the title of Percival, Martin had barely been old enough to be called an adult. But more than that, it was his unusual upbringing and the naivety in his interactions with others that made him seem so very young. Something about that had always bothered Harry; it left a bad taste in his mouth knowing Chester King had chosen his proposal with those very characteristics in mind. As much as he'd grown, Harry still sees the young man who'd chosen to take faltering steps in the right direction because he'd thought to trust Merlin and Harry to lead him down the right path.

 

Martin doesn't need his protection. He's more than capable of looking after not only himself, but those around him. He's saved Harry's life nearly as many times as Harry had saved his. It doesn't change the fact that Harry still feels an almost innate need to look after him. He couldn't protect Martin from the tip of that claymore or the icy depths of the Thames. He can't protect him from the debilitating injuries which will affect him for the rest of his life.

 

Despite all this, Martin was moved to the point of tears at having him returned to them. Rather than blame him, rather than be bitter or angry with his circumstances, he had just been thankful Harry was alive. And Harry can hardly stand it. Not when Martin had very nearly been lost to them or when James had been so close to falling apart completely because of it. Not when he'd failed them both so utterly.

 

"Harry?"

 

The sound of his name pulls him from his thoughts. Martin's eyes are closed as he teeters on the precipice of sleep.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Are you still here?"

 

Again he asks this question with the same undercurrent of desperation. Again Harry feels his stomach tied in knots.

 

"...I'm still here, Martin," Harry says quietly.

 

For a moment, he thinks Martin may have at last succumbed to sleep. He lies still for a time, his eyes closed as he breathes softly, but it's the work of a moment for his demeanor to change. Martin's brow furrows as he shifts in bed agitatedly like a child who's been sent off to sleep before their bed time.

 

"Don't go away again, Harry," Martin murmurs suddenly.

 

"I'm not going anywhere," Harry tells him. "Not any time soon."

 

The reassurance appears to pacify him—for a few moments at least. Harry simply waits and watches as his breaths grow deeper and slower, slipping once more towards inevitable sleep, only for him to jerk back towards wakefulness. He opens his eyes as he turns his face towards Harry, blinking slowly as he tries to keep himself from dozing off.

 

"Can I tell you something?" he asks quietly.

 

"Of course," Harry answers, equally as quiet.

 

"When you were gone... I missed you," Martin says, stumbling over his words but pushing on. "It made me... made me feel..."

 

Harry swallows thickly. "It's alright. You don't have to discuss it; I know how these things bother you."

 

Despite his words, Harry knows he's saying it more for himself now than he is for Martin.

 

"No, but... maybe we... we should," Martin mumbles. "Because we don't. And I didn't... never said things I should've said... then you were gone and it was too late. Just like James."

 

"Martin. It's alright," Harry repeats, feeling his body grow taut with tension, wishing he'd stop.

 

"I wanted to be like you," Martin continues on, oblivious to Harry's discomfort. "You were always... I always thought... you were just... good. I dunno where I'd be if you an' Merlin hadn't..."

 

"I think you give us too much credit and yourself too little," Harry says, glancing down and following the trail of the IV line with his eye. "You worked very hard to better yourself and that's not something to be taken lightly. For you to have come so far..."

 

For him to have come so far and nearly reached his end is what's so difficult about this. Harry knows better than nearly anyone how much Martin had struggled to undo what his parents had shaped him to be. And in more recent years, he'd seemed happy. Not merely settling for something good enough or better than nothing, but truly content with himself and the life he'd made. As though he finally understood his place in the world. It was too soon for him to die when he'd lived so little, so much less than the rest of them. Responsibility or fault aside, being associated in any way with that life being snuffed out has joined Harry's many other guilts in slowly eating away at him; each one a piranha dropped in the tank surrounding him, taking their pound of flesh one bite at a time.

 

"I'm sorry all of that was put in jeopardy because of someone who was looking for me," Harry says, his hands balled into fists against his knees. "I wish to god there were some way for me to fix this. But this is something I can't fix."

 

"Harry," Martin says, staring at him intently and clumsily reaching for his hand. "It wasn't your fault."

 

But it was.

 

"So don't be sorry," Martin tells him. "Just... Just be Harry. Be here. Be with Merlin. The rest is..."

 

He makes a vague, dismissive motion before his hand flops back onto the bed. Harry gets the distinct impression that he won't be fighting off the pull of the drugs in his system any longer. Martin would never talk so openly as he does now were it not for the medication. But Harry knows not one word of it is a lie; the drugs can't do that. If anything, they simply place a temporary door in all the many walls Martin still has yet to dismantle. What he's said here has been said in earnest.

 

Just be Harry.

 

Be here.

 

Be with Merlin.

 

Perhaps Harry hasn't been trying hard enough when it comes to some of those requests. He ought to try harder. He ought to be less preoccupied with his guilt. But when he leaves the infirmary for the night, he knows that's easier said than done.

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin rouses as he feels the bed dip beside him and rolls onto his side, scrubbing at his eyes. Harry's seated at the side of the bed with his back to Merlin, unfastening his tie and unbuttoning his cuffs.

 

"It's late," Merlin says.

 

Harry acknowledges him with a brief hum but says nothing more. That's enough to tell Merlin that Harry's preoccupied with something and given where he'd just come from, Merlin can take a stab at just what that is.

 

"How did it go?" he asks.

 

"It took time for him to settle down," Harry says. "That's why I'm late."

 

"Mm," Merlin hums. "But that's not what I asked."

 

Harry sighs and Merlin watches as he scrubs a hand across his face, his shoulders drooping wearily. Something had happened. It's just a matter of getting him to admit it. Merlin reaches out, his fingers caressing the small of his partner's back.

 

"Harry," he says quietly. "You can't keep going on thinking it was your fault."

 

"I was going to leave after Mags had medicated him," Harry says, as though he hadn't even heard Merlin at all. "But as I said, it took him time to settle. He kept waking, asking if I was still there. I couldn't leave until I was sure he wouldn't. I didn't want him to wake and think that I was..."

 

He trails off, almost as though his own thoughts had distracted him from speaking. 

 

"I know. That's alright," Merlin assures him. "But you're not listening. I know that it seems—"

 

"Stop," Harry cuts him off sharply, raising a hand, his shoulders bunched with tension. "Just... Stop. I know what you're going to say, I don't need to hear it."

 

Merlin almost regrets having retrieved that footage from Martin's spectacles. Ever since he had, Harry had just heaped the Tower Bridge on top of Cambodia in his apparent quest to take responsibility for everything and everyone under the sun. It's not healthy; not under normal circumstances but even less so as they begin to rebuild. He asks so much of himself. More than any one man should.

 

"I think you do, since it obviously hasn't sunken in for you yet," Merlin retorts. "What happened to Martin wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it. Nothing."

 

"The point is not whether or not I could have done something," Harry says, his words biting. "It's that she was after me and Martin was nearly killed because of it. Because she was trying to get to me and he simply happened to be in her way."

 

"Martin was injured because he was trying to protect James and Roxy," Merlin says gently. "Because she was targeting Kingsman as a whole even if she had named you specifically."

 

Harry opens his mouth, ready to come right back with a counterpoint, but Merlin doesn't allow him the opportunity.

 

"You don't give him enough credit, Harry," he says, grasping his fiance's wrist and trying to coax him into lying down. "He would do anything if it meant keeping those two safe. That's what this was about, Harry. At the end of the day, it had nearly nothing to do with you. What did Martin have to say about it?"

 

Harry scoffs at the question. "You can't expect him to be truthful. He's not going to try to tell me I'm the reason he's in that hospital bed when he's only just found out I'm alive."

 

"And you think that once the novelty of your survival wears off, he will," Merlin says.

 

"He should." 

 

"Would it make it easier for you somehow if he did?" Merlin asks him. "Blamed you for it? Hated you for it?"

 

"Is there something you're hoping to get out of this line of questioning?" Harry asks, at last turning to face Merlin where he sits propped up in their bed. His tone is frustrated, the defeated slump of his shoulders offset by the hard, warning look in his eye. "Because if it isn't an argument, then I would suggest that you stop."

 

"I want you to answer me," Merlin says, enunciating with deliberate slowness.

 

"I have answered you," Harry retorts.

 

"No, you haven't," Merlin corrects him. He exhales in a slow sigh, knowing he has to keep his own temper even if he means to sort this out. All too often in their arguments, they will goad the other into snarling right back at them until they're forced away from each other and the problem is left not only unresolved, but worse than it was before. "You keep telling me how things should be or what someone should think or feel, but you've said nothing about how you feel. Why is it so important that Martin blame you for this? Or that I blame you for Cambodia? Or that Eggsy blames you for Lee? Or that anyone blames you for anything?"

 

"Because I am to blame," Harry barks. "If—If I'd been on that bridge, Martin wouldn't be in the infirmary with his whole future uncertain. If I'd just seen that bloody grenade, Eggsy would still have a father and he would have had a far better life than the one he's had. And if I'd just remembered, then you... you..."

 

Harry throws his hands up in a defeated motion, unable to finish what he'd been going to say. Not that Merlin has to think very hard to guess at what he'd been going to say. Rather than fight him on it, he reaches out once more and draws his partner towards him. There's a brief moment of resistance from Harry before he gives in and allows Merlin to herd him close, until the two of them lie atop the bed, wrapped up in each other.

 

Merlin can hear the deep breaths Harry takes from where the spymaster's face is pressed against his neck. He'd so hoped seeing Martin awake and mending would help Harry get over this mountain he's made for himself, but if anything it just seems to have made matters worse.

 

"Everything will be alright," Merlin assures him. He pauses to wet his lips, taking great care in how he words his statement. "Even if it looks a bit gruesome right now, we're all on the mend and building back up. You can't ask for more than that. And you can't expect to take the blame for every misfortune that befalls us."

 

"If I am to properly operate as Arthur, as the leader of Kingsman, then responsibility must ultimately come down to me regardless of the situation," Harry says.

 

Merlin inhales deeply and runs his fingers through Harry's hair, gone grey at the temples but still as rebellious as it was in 1982. He needs to make Harry see this from a different angle. Telling him he's not to blame isn't going to make him budge.

 

"Harry, let me ask you a question," Merlin says quietly. "The first time he put on a bespoke, would you ever have imagined that Martin would one day reach this point? That he would come to love anyone so deeply that he would go as far as he did to protect Roxy and James?"

 

"If you had told me that in '92 I would have thought you were mad," Harry says, chuckling despite himself.

 

"Aye, I'd have thought much the same. Now, what happened was... terrible. But on the other side of the coin, I see this as a testament to how much he's grown," Merlin tells him. 

 

Harry says nothing. He lies quietly pressed against his fiancé, either deep in thought or headed towards sleep. Personally, Merlin hopes it's the latter. Harry has insisted that Merlin rest as often as he can, but hasn't thought to take his own advice. It seems like he's been up and moving and doing every waking moment. He seems to forget that Merlin and Martin and James aren't the only ones with some healing to do. All this means is that Merlin will have to work that much harder to remind him.

 

"I'm proud of him."

 

It's spoken softly against Merlin's collarbone but he hears it all the same.

 

"Then tell him," Merlin says, squeezing his Arthur's bicep. At Harry's hesitation he adds, "In your own time."

 

"I'm sorry," Harry sighs. "The last thing you need is my moping—"

 

"No," Merlin cuts him off sharply. "You need time as much as the rest of us. All four of us are a right mess, but we'll mend. You included."

 

Harry hums thoughtfully, his fingers lightly tracing the underside of the wizard's jaw.

 

"...he told me to just be Harry. To be here. To be with you," Harry murmurs. "Martin did, I mean. As he was falling asleep."

 

Merlin clucks his tongue thoughtfully. "Perhaps we ought to drug him more often when he's dropping pearls of wisdom like that beauty."

 

Harry snorts. "You can be the one to tell him, then."

 

Merlin huffs a laugh, feeling the tickle of Harry's chuckle against his chest. They can joke a little now that Martin's awake and recovering steadily. Harry's always had the devil's luck, but looking at the four of them now—somehow having all made it here together—Merlin thinks some of it must have rubbed off on the rest of them.

 

"He's not wrong, though," Merlin notes.

 

"I suppose not," Harry sighs against his chest. "I'll try harder."

 

"You can start by not trying to rebuild the organization overnight," Merlin advises him. "It's going to take time, Harry. There's no need for you to run yourself into the ground trying to get it done."

 

"I know," Harry says. "I just can't stand this vulnerability. Before I can even consider recruitment, I need to be sure those we have are looked after. That has to be my first priority."

 

"And you've done a marvelous job of it," Merlin says, running his fingers through his partner's hair. Pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, he inhales deeply, comforted by the scent of Harry's shampoo—something spicy and masculine and intimately familiar. "Take tomorrow off and have a lie in with me."

 

He feels Harry tugging at the collar of his t-shirt until he reaches bare skin. Their return to intimacy has been a process of trial and error. Both of them have changed and some of those changes have left them feeling self-conscious and unsure. But after their first coupling since they'd been reunited, things had been easier. It's why Harry can rise onto his hands and hover over Merlin, his lips pressing to the wizard's neck in hungry kisses with just the barest hint of teeth.

 

As they begin to shed their clothing, Merlin knows Harry won't be going to work in the morning. And later, as they lie nude and satisfied and tucked against one another, Merlin knows he's gotten through to him.

 

 

* * *

 

"Stop fidgeting," Harry says.

 

Martin grumbles as he shifts in his seat, seeming vexed beyond belief by Harry pushing his wheelchair. It's a nice day, unseasonably warm, and Lucy had thought getting some air and sun would do him some good. Although James had seemed surprised when Harry had volunteered to take him out, he hadn't protested, seeming rather pleased with the idea.

 

"I feel ridiculous," Martin says.

 

"You don't put up such a fuss when it's James," Harry notes.

 

"That's because it's James," Martin argues. "You're Arthur now, for god's sake. You've got more important things that you should be doing."

 

"If I'm ever so busy that I prioritize paperwork over any of you, then I don't deserve the title," Harry corrects him.

 

He smiles as Martin simply mutters to himself instead of arguing. They reach the shore of the loch and stop at a spot that's become popular with many of them; where a tree provides shade to the grassy bank that overlooks the water and large rocks nearby provide perfect seats for sunning oneself. Wheeling Martin over to one of these large rocks, Harry locks the wheels in place before seating himself on the rock beside it.

 

Martin's doing better as of late. He spends more days than not on minimal doses of medication, requiring an increase only when physical therapy becomes too much or he simply overexerts himself. It's a relief to have him spending greater and greater periods of time awake and with them—not that there weren't some true gems from his lack of filter while drugged, but Harry prefers having him clear-headed and seeming more like himself.

 

As predicted, physical therapy has been a strenuous and painful practice, but Harry finds himself thankful that Martin and Merlin have been able to lean on one another in that regard. They both do better with the other there as a morale booster. Of course, as Harry had thought, Martin is as stubborn as ever, often pushing himself beyond his means simply because he isn't willing to accept that he now has limitations.

 

"What is it you wanted to say, Harry?" Martin asks him.

 

Harry frowns at him. "Why do you assume there's something I wish to say?"

 

"I may not be as sharp as I was, but neither am I deaf, dumb and blind," Martin drawls.

 

Harry shakes his head. Still thinks he has all the answers! At least that much hasn't changed about him.

 

"It's not any one thing in particular," Harry answers him. "I wanted to take the time to speak with you myself and to see how you've been doing, if there's anything on your mind, if there's anything you'd care to discuss, any concerns you'd care for me to address...Things of that nature."

 

Martin watches him intently, as though trying to pick out the falsehoods in his words. But after a short time he relaxes back into his seat, apparently having found nothing. He casts his gaze over the water as he plucks at the edges of the sling his right arm is bound in. The cast had finally been removed, the breaks having healed over well by now, but at present the most he can do with that arm is to form a weak fist. And so for that reason—as well as to keep him still while the wound to his shoulder continues to heal—Lucy had fixed him up in a sling. Though Martin being Martin, he continues to restlessly fuss with it.

 

"Everything is fine," Martin says at length.

 

Harry knows very well that this isn't entirely the truth but also knows well enough to leave it alone. If Martin wants to talk, he will. Granted it will likely take him several weeks to work up the nerve but much as Merlin had told him, he has to do these things in his own time. Harry's decided his own time is right now.

 

"I'm proud of you," he says.

 

Several seconds pass before Martin offers him a very bewildered, "What?"

 

"I'm proud of you, Martin," Harry repeats.

 

If anything, this only seems to further his confusion. He squints at Harry in an effort to understand until, moments later, his eyebrows rise above the rims of his glasses in apparent realization.

 

"...my god, you're not dying, are you?" Martin asks, sounding panicked.

 

"No, I am not dying," Harry huffs. "Why is that everyone's first assumption whenever I wish to say something sincerely?"

 

"Because it's... it's just..." Martin says, fumbling for his words. "I'm not...Why?"

 

"Why shouldn't I be?" Harry asks.

 

"Because the most noteable thing I've done as of late is sit up in bed on my own," Martin informs him with a snort. "It's not exactly... not exactly... Ah. I've forgotten what I was going to say it was..."

 

Harry inhales slowly and looks out over the waters of the loch. Better that they're not looking each other in the eye; for him and for Martin, he thinks.

 

"I'd spoken with Merlin some weeks ago regarding the incident on the bridge," Harry begins, his hands clasped neatly where they rest between his knees. "He encouraged me to view it from a different angle and I realized that as responsible as I felt for what had happened, I felt a certain sense of pride as well. Twenty-five years ago I would never have imagined you would go so far to protect another person or that you would ever be capable of caring for anyone as deeply as you care for James and Roxy. However much as I may wish to mire myself in guilt for what happened, it shouldn't overshadow your actions. If there's anything I can be proud of, it's how much you've grown as a Kingsman and as an individual. And now more than ever, I'm thankful to have had the opportunity to know you. You may not recall telling me that we don't often say these sorts of things, but that perhaps we should... and I believe that perhaps we should."

 

Although Harry can't see him even peripherally from where he sits to his left, he knows Martin isn't looking at him. These are those sorts of things that someone like James wouldn't hesitate to say or that Merlin would say when he needed to, but which come to himself and Martin with much less ease. Harry isn't expecting a response and he hadn't said it to garner one. Martin may have been heavily medicated at the time, but when he expressed regret for things not said to James and himself before their apparent deaths, Harry had understood. It was something he'd felt for each of them—that biting regret for being too reserved to just come out and say the things he felt for them while they were still with him. But there had never seemed a time for it and he had taken for granted the fact that they always managed to somehow cheat death at every corner.

 

These days they seem to be cutting it far too close. James had called him a brother; one he'd said was closer to him than those of blood relation. Harry found himself agreeing. He'd never quite put it into words as James had, but it's undoubtedly how he regards James and Martin both. 

 

"I never thought I would," Martin says, breaking the silence. When Harry turns his head towards him, he finds the younger man gazing past the loch towards the rolling green hills lost in the distant fog. "I never thought I could. At first because I didn't understand and then because I thought myself simply incapable. But I hadn't counted on James. Or Roxanne. Or any of you. And..."

 

Harry watches his left hand ball into a tight fist where it rests on his thigh. It's difficult to tell if Martin's struggling to get the words out due to inability or his emotional reservations. Perhaps both.

 

"I don't believe I could have if things had been different, if you hadn't intervened," Martin says to him haltingly. "It had occurred to me... When we thought you'd died, it occurred to me that I never once thanked you in all the time that we've known one another."

 

"It's not something you need to thank me for," Harry points out.

 

Martin seems to chew on that answer briefly. "I have to imagine that Thomas must have told you about himself and Arthur—Chester King, I mean."

 

"He did. Certain things, in any case," Harry says, fairly certain he has an idea of where this is headed. "I take it you see some similarities in their dynamic."

 

Given how uncomfortable Martin looks, Harry has to think his guess is correct. It's not as though he hasn't considered it himself. Given that he had been Thomas's recruit and Martin had been Chester's, it not a great stretch of the imagination either.

 

"I just think that perhaps, if he'd had someone who... who was..."

 

Martin flounders with his wording, snapping his fingers agitatedly as he reaches for what he had moments ago. Eventually he gives in, choosing to motion between himself and Harry instead, seeming to relax once Harry nods his head in understanding. If Chester had a mentor the way Martin had him, in other words.

 

"It may have been different," Martin sighs. "And if that had been different, perhaps many things would have been. Likewise, if you hadn't stepped in... perhaps history would have merely repeated itself."

 

Harry tilts his head to the side thoughtfully, meeting Martin's gaze. Things would have been different in both cases, undoubtedly. However, he's not so cemented on the idea as Martin appears to be.

 

"I don't doubt that we would both be different men now, had that been the case," Harry admits. "Though I hardly think it's fair to designate me wholly as your moral center. Or wise, for that matter."

 

"Perhaps not, but you and Merlin account for a great deal of it," Martin says with a soft chuckle. He ducks his head, his gaze moving away from Harry once more. "I'm grateful for that."

 

They sit in a companionable silence, each mulling over the things the other has said. It's only when Martin makes as though to rise from his wheelchair that Harry moves. When Harry reaches him, Martin is drawing himself upright, his cane a firm anchor in the sands of the loch. Seeing him sway, Harry's hand darts out to grab him by the elbow in an effort to steady him.

 

"It's alright," Martin assures him, though he leans heavily on his cane. "I'm fine once I'm on my feet."

 

Harry makes a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat. "This isn't the sort of environment that supplies the surest footing."

 

"I won't go far," Martin assures him, a crooked grin on his face. "I really can't go far, so I suppose I'm rather locked in to that promise."

 

It's not the sort of thing Harry finds funny, but he understands the need to make a joke of yourself now and again. It keeps you from falling too deeply into black moods and self-pity. 

 

As they walk slowly along the shoreline, Harry does his best not to hover. It's difficult not to. As much as his rehabilitation has progressed, Martin is still very far from being fit for even light duty. He's only just started to regain the weight and muscle mass he'd lost while in a coma. Even brief activities such as this quickly drain him of what little stamina he has. Despite his understanding that it's unavoidable, Martin never the less remains grossly impatient with his progress; Harry is aware that Lucy has had to lecture him more than once already regarding his efforts to get back on his feet.

 

Which brings Harry to the other reason he'd wished to speak with Martin alone. James has been regularly seeing a therapist since his outburst at Roxy's little adventure to England and it's clearly done him a world of good. More recently, Harry had put the idea before Merlin and the two of them have been attending sessions both together and individually for an odd handful of weeks. Harry thinks it's about time they got Martin to join the ranks, so to speak.

 

"James seems to be doing well," Harry remarks.

 

Martin nods, gaze cast downward as he concentrates on his steps. "Therapy seems to be helping him a great deal. I should've pushed harder for him to go when we recovered him. Perhaps he wouldn't have reached such a low point if I had."

 

"You did what you could," Harry reassures him.

 

"It wasn't enough," Martin says, his tone hard and unyielding.

 

The last thing Harry wants is for this to turn into an argument. He has no intention of bullying Martin into agreeing with him, but he worries anything short of that won't work.

 

"Merlin and I have been attending therapy," Harry says suddenly.

 

Too suddenly, almost. Martin stops in his tracks so quickly that he nearly topples over. "You... what? How hard did Merlin have to twist your arm for that to happen?"

 

"Actually, I was the one who suggested it," Harry answers. At the incredulous look on his colleague's face, he adds moodily, "Oh, don't give me that look; it's not _that_ unusual."

 

"I suppose it's just not something I ever considered," Martin says slowly, looking at Harry as though he's seeing something in him for the first time. Perhaps he is. "Though, given how it's helped James... I wouldn't say it's a bad thing, necessarily."

 

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Harry says. "Because I'd like it if you began making appointments as well."

 

All at once, any hint of warmth or camaraderie is gone and Harry is greeted by a sight he is long familiar with. He'd always mentally equated it to a tortoise drawing back inside its shell, the way Martin withdraws from him now. It's something he saw less of as time wore on, but not to the extent that he would wish. The other man's body is drawn taught, his lips pressed into a thin line as his dark eyes stare back at Harry from beneath a heavy frown.

 

"No," Martin replies firmly.

 

"I had a feeling you would say that," Harry sighs. "But this isn't a matter of—"

 

" _No_ ," Martin repeats. "I don't need it."

 

It takes a great deal of willpower for Harry to bite his tongue and not say that he thinks Martin may need it more than any of them. He knows that will only make this even more difficult than it already is. 

 

"If I asked you to do it in order to help James, would you reconsider?" Harry asks.

 

"Don't use him as a pawn to accomplish your goals," Martin says bitingly. "He's been through enough as it is."

 

"I have no intention of making him a part of it. This remains between you and I," Harry assures him, slipping his hands in his pockets. "I'm merely asking that you consider the benefit to James's mental health by considering your own."

 

"I don't need therapy," Martin says. "I'm fine."

 

"You and I both know that isn't true," Harry says gently.

 

His words only seem to stoke the fire as Martin casts a venemous look in his direction before making an about face and stalking back towards the castle. Harry closes his eye and inhales deeply, reminding himself that he knew this would be no easy task and remaining firm in his convictions. When he sets out after the other man, it doesn't take him long to catch up—Martin himself had pointed out that he couldn't go far. By the time they're side by side, it's clear Martin has reached his limit for the day but he presses on regardless, preferring, it seems, to run himself to the ground rather than have this conversation.

 

"Martin, enough of this now," Harry says, circling until he comes to a halt in front of him. "Stop."

 

Jaw clenched, Martin refuses to so much as look him in the eye and instead opts to try and move around him. But as Harry had thought, his limit had been reached, and in short order his legs begin to give out beneath him. Harry finds himself thankful that his two years in Statesman's padded room hadn't left him so out of shape that he's incapable of catching Martin without both of them hitting the ground. The dull thud of the cane hitting the grass partners with the sound of Martin's harsh breathing to paint quite a sorry picture as Harry holds him up.

 

" _Enough_ ," Harry repeats, firmer this time. He pauses before adding in a lighter tone, "Mum will scold me if I return you to her like this."

 

There's no answering laughter, but then, Harry hadn't truly expected any. More is needed here, he knows, but he worries about how far is too far between them. The relationships the two of them have with Merlin and James, with Mags, with their respective protégés, are markedly different from the relationship between the two of them. He knows it's a fault on both their parts but perhaps he ought to be the one to make the attempt to begin removing some of the formality, some of the emotional distance, between them.

 

His arms feel like stone as he shifts his grip on the younger man until he's holding him, rather than simply propping him up. It's a negligible difference to most, but that doesn't keep it from feeling as though it's spurred an enormous shift in their dynamic. The act itself is something incredibly simple; a hug. This is something he's done with Merlin often, with Lucy in equal measure, with James to a somewhat lesser degree, but something which has always been off the table between himself and Martin. It's never been for a lack of caring between them, nor a dearth of love—though neither of them would likely verbally label it as such—but rather for the simple fact that they had always respected each other's boundaries as proper, emotionally repressed Englishmen.

 

It feels strange to cross that line now, and judging by the way Martin remains unmoving with his free arm at his side, it's not something he knows what to do with.

 

"You must stop running from these things," Harry tells him. "Believe me when I say I know that it's far easier to avoid it all. But I think we're too old to be pulling the covers up over our heads for fear of monsters, don't you?"

 

He wonders if perhaps this is a conversation he'll be forced to put on hold. If he'd waited until they'd begun to return to the castle he may have had better luck. Now he's going to be lucky to get any words from Martin at all.

 

Just as Harry's prepared to tell him not to worry himself over it for the time being, he hears something he never imagined he would: "I can't."

 

It's a choked, exhausted response that Harry hadn't expected. Martin's stubborn streak is ferocious; especially when it comes to admitting there's something he's unable to do or that he needs help. Harry had anticipated being firmly shut down, for the wall before him to be insurmountable, and the sudden honesty of the admission has caught him off guard. But he's not about to waste his chance when he's been given an opening.

 

"You _can_ ," Harry insists.

 

"...no, I..."

 

"It's difficult... but not impossible," Harry cuts him off. "I don't claim to enjoy it myself and there are times I'd like nothing more than to walk out. But with that being said, making the decision to go, to attempt to better myself, is not one I regret. It's one of our most important tenets: to be superior to one's former self. Remember that, Percival."

 

Harry can say all of this, but he doesn't envy Martin's position. Pushing himself to seek help had felt like a monumental undertaking. For Martin, he knows, this will mean addressing things which should have been addressed decades ago—things that Harry and Merlin and James and Lucy are aware of, but which have never been spoken of at any great length. It had never seemed the time, like so many things between all of them. But if there's a time, it's now. It has to be. They've been boxed into a corner, yes, but as Harry so often has to remind himself, it's an opportunity for growth. And he isn't about to see any of them left behind.

 

When Martin attempts to pull away from him, Harry digs his heels in and tightens his hold as much as he's safely able. A better man may have been able to put into words the things that Harry feels, but at present, as the man he is with all his flaws and short comings, what he can do is hold on and pray it's enough for Martin to understand.

 

The concept of a hug was one that Martin had been introduced to much later in life, Harry knows. Lucy being the first to attempt it had found herself roughly shoved into the wall, met with wide, panicked eyes like those of a cornered rabbit. Even now, so many years later, there's always that thin line of tension in his shoulders which briefly appears when others touch him. Which is why it surprises Harry when the other man's forehead drops to his shoulder and his left arm circles around Harry's middle to return the embrace.

 

Twenty-five years. That's how long it had taken for this to happen. And though it begins awkward and stilted, Harry can feel the rigidity gradually leaving both of them a little bit at a time, until it feels no different than it had with James. Harry wishes it hadn't taken this long, that the two of them could have learned sooner to drop the walls they put up against the world—and sometimes those closest to them.

 

"You _can_ do it, Martin," Harry repeats, his palm pressed firmly to the center of the other man's back. "And there's no shame in being frightened. It will sometimes be painful and you will have to confront things you'd rather stayed buried, but as terrifying as that prospect seems, it will help. I promise you that. I would never push for something if I thought it would ultimately do you more harm than good and I pray you believe me when I tell you so."

 

He'd said something like this long ago, he recalls, when he was young and Martin even younger. That he hoped Martin believed he was looking out for his best interests. It had been true then and it's true now; perhaps even more so.

 

"I do. I just... I... I'm just..." Martin answers quietly. Moments pass as he reaches fruitlessly for the words he needs, until at last his shoulders droop and he sags in Harry's hold as he says, "...tired..."

 

Tired.

 

Harry knows what that means. He knows how that feels. Being exhausted physically and mentally, when it feels as though you're never anywhere but at the end of your rope. When the obstacles before you seem impossible to overcome. When it feels as though you don't even have the energy to do so much as rise from your bed when you wake. When you don't think you have the strength to push yourself through hardship after hardship. When your body is broken in ways that can't be fixed.

 

Harry knows what it means to be tired.

 

"I know," Harry says with a heavy sigh that carries more weight than it appears. "Just as I know that makes finding the strength to do this that much more difficult. But strength comes in many forms and often times you'll find it's drawn from those around you just as frequently as it comes from within. You have James. You have Merlin and myself. You have your niece and Eggsy. You have Morgana."

 

He feels the back of his suit coat bunching in Martin's fist as he speaks, as though the man is anchoring himself for fear of being swept away. But Martin isn't alone. None of them are. It's learning to get out of his own way that's the problem.

 

"This isn't something you need weather on your own," Harry says encouragingly. "Do you understand?"

 

A nod against his shoulder.

 

"Will you try?" Harry asks.

 

Though the response time seems infinitely longer, ultimately Martin nods stiffly once more. When he moves to draw away, this time Harry doesn't stop him. Keeping a steadying hand on his arm, Harry gives him an appraising look that Martin does not meet. His eyes are firmly lowered to the ground, glasses crooked from having rested his head on Harry's shoulder and stray strands of hair falling out of their neat side part and across his forehead. A far cry from perfectly put together Percival. He may not have drowned in the Thames, but he's dangerously close to drowning now as he continues to tread water in a bid to keep his head above the tide. Getting him to grab hold of the life preserver that's been thrown to him is a small step, but a gravely important one all the same.

 

"I'll speak with Mags about scheduling time for an appointment," Harry tells him.

 

Martin swallows thickly, growing somehow even paler at the prospect as he nods silently, like a man preparing himself for the gallows. But Harry doesn't mean for this to be a punishment. 

 

"I realize I've already said it, but it bears repeating: I am proud of you, Martin," Harry says. "Truly."

 

He hears a near silent huff of laughter, colored more heavily by anxiety than it is humor. "Twice in one day is a bit much, isn't it, Harry?"

 

Looking at the man standing before him, his answer is obvious. 

 

"Not nearly."


	13. all the king's men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players are gathered and secrets come to light. But not everything is as it appears.

Although Roxy had known Harry Hart most of her life, she can't say she truly _knows_ the man. He'd been a vaguely familiar face—along with Merlin—when she'd first arrived for her Kingsman training; one that she'd noticed in passing when her uncle had babysat her or spied in the seats of a handful of her childhood ballet recitals (no doubt there as a result of her uncle's wheedling). The grief she'd felt at his passing had been more second hand than anything. Something she felt more for the ones who missed him most.

Now, sitting alone with him in the cabin of a plane bound for England, she isn't quite sure what to say. Or if she should say anything at all, really. His remaining eye is closed as he reclines in his seat, hands folded neatly in his lap, and she can't even say with any certainty that he's awake.

"Is there something troubling you? "

She swallows a curse before it can make its way to her lips as Harry seems to somehow sense she's staring at him. Being caught off guard isn't something she likes to find herself open to.

"I wouldn't say anything is troubling me, sir," Roxy answers him smartly. "I suppose I just have a great deal on my mind."

Harry hums in recognition before fixing her with his gaze. "Likely a great deal more than you've let on to anyone."

Unsure how to respond, she merely shrugs a shoulder in response. Of course there's more than she's let on, but given their profession, she doesn't find it all that unusual. Undoubtedly each of them has a great deal on their minds with current events.

"It occurred to me that you haven't had much time to decompress," Harry says, watching her intently. "And perhaps you may not have had the support you should have."

"I don't believe anyone's had much time to decompress," Roxy answers him slowly, a thoughtful frown forming in her face. "As far as support... I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

"I'm not talking about everyone," Harry responds patiently. "I'm talking about you."

The answer does little in the way of clarification. What is it he's getting at, she wonders? 

"Things moved rather quickly for you, did they not? Following James's apparent death," Harry says.

"...I suppose," Roxy admits haltingly.

"It was a difficult time for many of us," Harry says. "But as your uncle, I understand his loss was inevitably far more difficult for you. I think perhaps Martin may not have been... the best equipped when it came to helping you deal with that grief."

Regardless of the fact that he's her superior, regardless of the fact that he's one of the most respected agents Kingsman has had to date, Roxy feels herself bristle at his words. It's not as though she hasn't heard similar things before, it's just that she's never heard them from someone who is supposed to be Martin's friend.

"Then you thought wrong," she says stiffly. "Sir."

To her surprise, Harry smiles.

"Ah. A poor choice of words on my part," Harry says. He crosses one long leg over the other, wearing a contemplative look. "I simply meant that Martin may have been too overcome by his own grief and the idea of mentoring you in the pursuit of James's title to fully grasp that your emotional needs were potentially not being met. It's not a sleight against his character, merely an observation. Then again, I could be entirely off the mark. Would you say that I am?"

It may have been wiser for her to remain silent, she thinks. How does she answer him? How does she answer something no one had ever asked her? But then... maybe the fact that no one has asked her is an answer in itself.

"It's not as though I've been neglected," Roxy says.

"No, I don't believe you have been," Harry agrees. "However, I will say that I hear constant praise of your strength from everyone around you. I've thought as much of you myself. But there are times when we forget that just because one is strong doesn't mean they need be at all times, nor that they are capable of such a feat. We shouldn't equate being strong to not needing help, but very often we make the mistake of doing so."

She gives herself a moment to digest his words before inhaling and forcing herself to let the breath out in a slow exhale. Yes, the past few years have been hard. Yes, there have been times when she's felt the need to put her own needs aside in favor of others. Yes, she's sometimes wished her uncles had been more available to her when things hadn't been going so swimmingly. But she's not about to say they had been oblivious to her or her feelings. Nor is she going to claim she's not had a moment of weakness in that time. But overall...

"I'm fine," Roxy says.

"You know, Martin insisted he was fine as well," Harry remarks, almost casually.

"That's different," Roxy argues. It's only now that she's notices the way her hands have clenched into fists in her lap, the fabric of her pants stuck between tightly clenched fingers. "Uncle Martin is... It's just different."

"Alright," Harry says, not pressing her on the issue. He tilts his head to the side, regarding her thoughtfully. "You know, you _can_ talk to me, Roxanne. I understand at times it can be difficult to discuss certain topics with those closest to us—with your uncles or with Eggsy, for example. If I seem unapproachable—"

"No," Roxy blurts. "No, it's just that I don't... I don't know you. I do, but... I don't. Not like the others do."

She watches as the spymaster seems to take this into consideration, nodding quietly to himself. It's almost as though the idea is something he'd already considered. But then, he's known her since she was a child and his perspective on her is bound to differ from her perspective on him. He's always been something untouchable to her. The way James and Martin had respected him, the way Eggsy had revered him, how Merlin spoke of him as though he'd hung the moon... she'd just never quite had the chance to form her own opinions.

Then he'd gone and been killed and it had seemed as though she'd lost that opportunity forever. Only now here he is. Risen from the grave, sitting right before her and she still thinks to prod his wounds like some Doubting Thomas. With everything that's happened, she feels as though she's emerged from some kind of fog, wholly unprepared to see him one-on-one like this.

"Mm. I had been wondering about that," Harry admits. "In truth, it's part of the reason this little venture is limited to the two of us."

Roxy doesn't know exactly what to make of that. "Sir?"

"Second chances aren't things meant to be squandered," Harry tells her. "And being that I've been granted one, I'd like to take time to get to know you better. Not just as an agent, but as an individual."

Needless to say, the answer surprises her. He wants to... get to know her. It's not all that strange in itself  but given that it's coming from Harry Hart it feels bizarre in the extreme. It reminds her of when James used to take her on little "dates" as a child that made her feel grown-up and mature as she sipped cappuccinos that she didn't realize we're decaf until she was thirteen. She would talk to him about all sorts of things then, viewing him as her trusted confidante, her secret keeper. 

Remembering brings a small smile to her face; sometimes she truly misses being that young. Or perhaps she just misses the days when it seemed like nothing could go wrong, when it seemed like James and Martin were untouchable.

"I'd like the same," Roxy says with a nod.

"I'm happy to hear it," Harry says with a smile of his own. "And I'd like to stress that anything you choose to confide in me will stay between us. I understand I'm not your first choice when it comes to these things, but my door is always open all the same."

"Thank you," Roxy murmurs. "I'll keep that in mind."

It's not something she'd considered before, seeking him out like that, but now that it's on the table... Well. She'll think about it.

* * *

The records had all matched up. They'd been meticulous in their search, leaving no stone unturned. By all accounts, the young man they're waiting to see is precisely who he claims to be. Yet as Harry sits idly stirring his tea, he still can't seem to fully accept what he knows is almost certainly fact. It still seems too bizarre, too outlandish, that there would be another child born to that family after Martin.

When he'd been lucid enough to receive the news, Percival's reaction had been heavily guarded. However, having known him for nearly a quarter of a century, Harry had been able to see the torrent of emotion he'd been holding back. Fear. Anger. Guilt. Not for the first time, it causes Harry to wonder if this meeting is really the best thing for Martin presently. Then he wonders if that's merely his own reservations coloring his thoughts.

Either way, this is happening, and regardless of his own feelings on the matter, Roxy seems terribly anxious to see Mickey again. In fact, Roxy has seemed terribly anxious to see him since they'd left him the first time. Harry knows they've been in regular contact and more than once he's caught her staring at her phone intently, thumbs nearly a blur as they moved across the screen to type.

"Did Uncle Martin ever talk to you?"

The blurted question draws his attention and Harry looks up to find Roxy leaning forward in her seat, her gaze pinned on him. 

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific," Harry says with a slight smile.

The young woman's cheeks grow a light pink but she never breaks eye contact. "About his parents, I mean. About his childhood or... anything."

Harry taps his spoon on the rim of his cup before neatly placing it on the saucer. "The short answer is 'no.' The long answer is that your uncle seemed to do his best to forget that period of his life and the few admissions he has made to me can be counted on one hand with fingers to spare."

She doesn't seem pleased with the information.

"Do you suppose he talked to anyone else?" Roxy presses. "He must have with Uncle James at least."

"To my knowledge," Harry answers her slowly, "Martin chose not to share that information with anyone if it could be helped; not even James. Of course, I can't know everything that happens between them, so perhaps more has been said than I can account for."

The answer brings a frown to Roxy's face, though Harry is hardly surprised. He often wonders these days, if they had pushed Martin to open up to someone in all those years, would things be different now? Instead he'd buried it all and they had allowed him to do so under the guise of respecting his privacy. The old fashioned notions tied to their world have come back to bite them more than once in recent years.

"Mickey has been talking," Roxy explains, plucking distractedly at the edge of her napkin. "We've been talking quite a bit. Some of the things he's said are just..."

She shakes her head, as though trying to banish the thoughts. It's clear this is an issue that's been weighing heavily on her mind, though, perhaps she hasn't had anyone to share it with. Or perhaps she's tried to respect Mickey's privacy in the same way they'd respected Martin's. Yet the fact that she's talking to him here and now reminds him that the next generation can learn from the prior's mistakes.

"It made me wonder, is all," she concludes.

"That boy is fortunate to have had you to talk to," Harry tells her. "Something tells me that he likely hasn't had many people with similar influence in his life thus far."

"He doesn't really have any friends," Roxy affirms, her eyes finding her mobile phone where it's settled on the table. "But he seems more willing to talk than Uncle Martin. Everything he's told me just makes me want to get him away from here as soon as possible. No one should have to live like that."

Harry doesn't know precisely what sort of things Mickey had confided in her but he has no doubt that none of them are pleasant. His own experiences with Martin in that regard—few though they may be—had left him with a fair picture of life in Gainsborough Manor. It was not a household any child should be raised in. Removing the boy from that environment had been something he intended to do regardless of whether they found him to be blood related to Martin. 

Roxy's phone buzzes on the table and she quickly snatches it up. Harry watches as her brows slowly draw together in a perplexed frown while her eyes scan the screen.

"Something wrong?" Harry asks her.

"I'm not sure," Roxy answers, beginning to rise from her seat, eyes still glued to the screen as her thumbs tap out a response. "Mickey says he's on his way but that we have to leave quickly."

"Alright," Harry answers, rising along with her. "But why do I feel that isn't what's bothering you?"

"It's just that... His text seemed hurried. It was full of typos," Roxy explains. She looks out towards the entrance to the courtyard. "He never makes errors in his texts like that. It just feels off."

Her concern is enough for Harry. He doesn't know enough about this young man to say what it means either way, but if she's interpreting it as a warning sign then he isn't going to ignore it. After settling their bill, the two of them begin making their way towards the courtyard entrance with Roxy typing on her mobile all the while. They're only feet away from the entrance when Mickey comes hurtling around the stone wall, nearly colliding with both of them. 

"Christ!" he curses in surprise, quickly coming to a hault. "I didn't think you'd be right there."

"Mickey, what _happened_?" Roxy asks, stepping forward.

It's then that Harry gets a good look at the still bleeding split lip and rapidly swelling left eye the dark-haired boy is sporting. As Roxy reaches out to him, he quickly ducks from her reach and shuffles a step backward. His hand flies up and under his glasses to cover his eye almost defensively.

"It's nothing. Can we go?" Mickey asks, glancing back over his shoulder. "I've only just outrun them."

"Who?" Harry asks.

"His father's security," Roxy explains. She looks back to Mickey. "Is that how this happened?"

"No, I was... I got a bit cocky at the end. Thought I'd tell my parents off," Mickey says almost guiltily. "They didn't take very well to the idea and... Can we leave? I don't think it's wise to remain standing here."

"I agree," Harry says with a nod. "This way, then."

The three of them set off towards the road, looking to get some distance away before hailing a cab. Harry uses the time to analyze the young man now accompanying them. He seems entirely removed from the confident, straight-backed boy who had met them previously. As they walk, he continues to glance over his shoulder while trying to insist to Roxy that he's alright. He keeps a firm grasp on the straps to his knapsack which rests securely on his bunched shoulders. Even a casual observer could tell his body language is panicked and flighty, like a rabbit prepared to bolt at the first sign of wolves at the door.

As it happens, the wolves aren't so far away. Mickey comes to a sudden halt as they round the bend, the sight of a group of men clad in black attire making him go stiff with anxiety. They're busy seemingly interrogating a shopkeeper, but the moment one of them catches sight of their target, several more sets of eyes swivel towards them.

"Here," Harry instructs, gesturing down an alley to the right.

There's a moment of hesitation from Mickey, as though he isn't certain whether or not he should trust Harry, but Roxy's hand on his arm seems to make up his mind. They all file into the narrow alley and Harry follows behind the two at an almost languid pace; there's no need to rush when they aren't going very far. Harry sometimes thinks he may keep a little too much to himself as they reach the end of the alley and Mickey turns to look back at him with dread in his eyes.

"This is a dead end," he says quietly.

"Indeed it is," Harry agrees.

"Sir," Roxy intones stiffly.

Ah. She's not happy. He wonders for a moment at how fiercely protective she seems of this young man they barely know, but decides now isn't the time to linger on the thought. Especially not when they have visitors. Mickey doesn't seem pleased with Harry's choice of direction as the pack of security guards bears down on them.

"Hand over the boy," the one at the lead says gruffly.

"No, I don't think I will," Harry replies airily. 

"None of us wants to get rough with an old man and a girl, but don't think that we won't," the guard warns him. "Mr. Gainsborough is expecting the boy returned promptly."

"Well, being that _the boy_ is of age and clearly doesn't wish to return, I suppose _Mr. Gainsborough_ will just have to settle for being disappointed," Harry says. "Now, do you mind? I'd like to settle this as quickly as possible."

"Don't provoke them," Mickey says behind him. "You don't want to do that. I'll go with them, just... stop. Please."

Turning his attention briefly away from the obstacle before them, Harry takes a moment to focus on Mickey. Though his posture remains rigid, the earlier panic seems to have fled him. Instead, resignation has taken its place; solid, miserable resignation. He's still terrified, Harry knows that, but he's also prepared to return to the home he'd finally escaped from if it means keeping them from harm. Despite having warned Merlin against doing so, Harry finds himself drawing parallels between this young man and the one he'd taken under his wing decades ago. He's troubled, undoubtedly, from an awful home with a hellish upbringing, but Harry knows from experience that sometimes flowers will bloom in even the most unlikely places.

Mickey flinches when Harry reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder but doesn't budge an inch. His eyes find Harry's, confusion swirling in a sea of bright blue. So different from Martin's dark eyed gaze and yet nearly identical in every other way. Whatever reservations Harry may have, it doesn't change the fact that Mickey is still just a boy; one that needs help.

"This will only take a moment," Harry promises him. "Stay with Roxy."

The statement doesn't seem to clear any of Mickey's confusion, but Harry plans on doing so with actions over words. Granted, it does take him a tad more than a moment—still adjusting to the loss of his eye in the field, but markedly improved in recent months—but he thinks he gets the point across. Admittedly it's something of an indulgence for him. As Arthur, his time in the field is bound to be far more limited and the last opportunity he'd had to stretch his wings had been... Well, Cambodia. And that's something he'd rather not think about.

There's something terribly freeing in violence of this caliber. Perhaps it's wrong of him to think so but he does all the same. He always has. Being good at what he does, taking down an alley full of highly trained guards with relative ease, moving with the kind of effortless precision that a ballet dancer would envy, it makes something hum inside him. Like a tuning fork that's been struck, it resonates through his entire being and makes itself at home in his core. 

And then it's over.

It feels like a mere instant, as though he'd blinked and it was done. He knows, of course, that this is not the case. The bodies on the grimy floor of the alley are proof of that. He feels... disappointed. It's wrong to feel that, surely, but knowing does nothing to stop it. Something in him wishes for more to sink its teeth into.

"I knew you weren't fucking tailors," Mickey says from behind him.

...but now isn't the time for him to be dwelling on such things. He straightens himself out and looks back to the young man and woman in the alley behind him. 

"Not always, no," Harry admits. He nods towards the entrance of the alley. "Come along."

* * *

Kingsman is changing in more and more ways each day. Good ways, James thinks. What's left of the organization is steadily making its way back to its feet; enough so that they can begin to fill their ranks. It's part of the reason he and Eggsy are down at the docks today. As part of the ongoing partnership between their three agencies, Statesman and the Sons of Liberty have sent some of their agents to be trained alongside new Kingsman recruits. 

"Nice to feel like we're finally getting somewhere," Eggsy remarks as they watch their visitors disembark from their vessel.

"You can say that again," James answers. "Seems like it's been years since, well... all that."

Even with the vast resources of the Statesman and Sons at their disposal, the idea of Kingsman being rebuilt from the ground up had seemed some distant idea. Always just something on the horizon. They'd been in such bad shape that James had personally wondered if they truly would rebuild. It had just seemed too daunting a task with what they had left. But now that they're here in Scotland with construction steadily underway, things don't seem as unrealistic as they had before. 

Admittedly, a great deal of this progress feels tied to the fact that Martin is awake and mending. At least for James it does. Time had seemed to stand still when his partner had been comatose. Sitting in that room day in and day out, it hadn't seemed to matter much at all if the organization ever got back on its feet. They'd been reduced to a handful of broken pieces and he hadn't held a great deal of hope regarding the organization. He hadn't held a great deal of hope for much at all in that time.

Now though, they're moving forward, taking on two agents each from the Statesman and Sons and preparing to start submitting nominations to fill out their ranks. Lee Stetson, a.k.a. Tequila and Ginger Pruitt, a.k.a. Ginger Ale—Whiskey now, though—are more familiar to Eggsy, having worked closely with them during the Golden Circle incident. However, he and Roxy seemed to have developed a good relationship with Nasha Roux, a.k.a. Lamb and Ethan Spencer, a.k.a. Swan from the Sons. It helped somewhat that Tequila seemed to be good friends with them already. Either way, James is glad to see all the younger agents forming their own ties; it's something that he and the others never got to do what with Chester ruining Kingsman's relationship with their American counterparts.

"Well, you're all looking better than the last time I saw you," Champ declares as the group of them disembark from the Sons' ship. "Heard from Arthur that the rebuild's been going well."

"It has been, thank you," James says, reaching out to shake his hand. "He apologizes for not being here himself, but he had a rather important matter to attend to. He'll be returning later in the day."

Champ waves the apology off, early not concerned or offended that James and Eggsy had been sent in Harry's stead. James finds he likes that about the man. He has an easy, laid-back attitude with these sorts of things, which belies a resolve as hard as steel.

"You already have enough on your plate," Adams says beside him, her arm linked with his. "No need for all the bells and whistles just to come pick us up."

"Speak for yourself," Nasha snorts, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her leather jacket.

Diani Price, a.k.a Revere, reaches over and pinches the younger woman's cheek; hard. The statement had been made in jest, but clearly the elder agent is in no mood for her protege's sass. Undoubtedly Diani is still very concerned with making a good impression, and given that Nasha and Ethan are representing their organization, she's leaning on them hard to be sure that they behave themselves.

"Ignore her," Diani says flatly.

"I planned to," Eggsy says, grinning as Nasha shoves at him.

"Where's Rox at?" Lee asks.

"Off with Harry on that errand," Eggsy says. "Picking up that kid we met, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, Mickey Mouse," Lee laughs.

Looking at them, you'd think they'd known each other for years. James is almost envious of the easy, carefree way in which they've seemingly gotten to know each other. He's hardly the most buttoned up individual, but he's still going about this as professionally as possible and so he hasn't exactly had the bonding opportunities that his youngers have. Well, part of that is his own fault, isn't it? He's hardly been good company in recent months. In fact he's fairly certain Nasha and Lee's most recent memory of him is screaming himself hoarse at his niece.

But he can't keep dwelling on it. Nothing's going to change unless he works to make that change. Yes, he'd behaved poorly and he fully acknowledges and takes responsibility for it, but he has to move past it as well. It's one of the many lessons from his therapy sessions that he's trying hard to put into practice. Mooring himself in guilt and self-hatred will only drag him down and hurt the people around him even further. That's the last thing he wants.

So. Fresh start. Chin up. Move forward.

"Well, why don't we get moving?" James suggests. "I'm sure you'd all like to get settled."

It's fairly easy from there to get everyone ushered into the waiting cars, Eggsy taking one group and James taking the other. It's not a terribly long ride, but long enough that he's sure all of them will be happy to see a good meal and their quarters with all the traveling they'd done today. The Sons' ship is faster than most, but it's hardly a short trip across the pond. James remembers that quite vividly.

"James, I don't think you've had a chance to be properly introduced to Agent Swan yet," Adams says as they begin the last leg of their journey. There's a twinkle in her eye that speaks of mischief and he wonders just what he's about to get into. "He's been rather eager to introduce himself."

"Yes, hello," Ethan says quickly, looking far too excited for a simple introduction in James's opinion. "We've met before, briefly. A few months ago."

"Yes, I remember," James agrees with a nod. "You're Lamb's partner, correct?"

"Exactly," Ethan says, looking pleased. "Well, work partner, partner in crime... That sort of thing. Uh... Well, I'd meant to do this sooner, but it didn't seem appropriate with how your boyfriend was doing."

_Your boyfriend._

It's silly that two words make him feel so giddy. How long have he and Martin been together? And yet it's a phrase he's almost never heard someone use in reference to them. This is another thing that's taking some getting used to. The idea that none of them have to sneak around with each other is a welcome change, but one that's taking time. More than once he's walked into a room and seen Harry and Merlin quickly separate themselves out of reflex. 

"Thankfully he's doing much better now," James says, warmed by the thought. "Though I'm curious what it is you meant to do that's waited—"

"We're related," Ethan blurts.

Nasha snort-laughs at his overeagerness and James finds himself wondering if he'd heard right. Ethan is looking to him expectantly, nearly vibrating in his seat with excitement, and James doesn't know quite what to make of it.

"Come again?" he says.

"We're related," Ethan repeats. "Your grandfather, he was named Geoffrey, wasn't he?"

"Well, yes," James says slowly.

"And he had a brother named George whom he had a falling out with, correct?"

"Yes..."

"And that brother then emigrated to the United States?" Ethan presses.

"So what I assume you're about to tell me is that you're related to him," James surmises.

Ethan nods quickly. "My great-grandfather. Like I said, I meant to say something sooner but it just didn't seem like the right time. But I _really_ wanted to get to know you since my family is... well... they're what they are and we don't talk much. But you're like me."

"Like you?" James echoes curiously.

"Yeah, gay," Ethan says, near-beaming. "Or queer, at least."

Ah, now he's putting two and two together. It seems ousting any undesireables from the gene pool through exile is something of a Spencer family tradition. Well, no wonder the poor boy had been so excited to be introduced.

"Queer as they come," James announces with a bright grin. "Good to meet you then, Ethan. Properly, I mean. Roxy will be thrilled; seems we're finding surprise relatives all over the place these days."

"Mmhmm," Adams hums, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "I'd heard you'd stumbled upon an unexpected sibling for Percival. The boy is lucky your niece is as strong-willed as she is."

"You can certainly say that again," James sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Even I had no idea he existed."

"But from what I understand, Arthur is still wary," Adams goes on to say. "Morgana explained to me that she'd be running a DNA test to confirm."

"That's true," James says, nodding in agreement. "I can hardly blame him for being careful, what with everything that's gone on. Though to hear Roxy tell it, a glance is as good as any test."

The woman merely nods quietly to herself, seeming thoughtful in the wake of their short exchange. James isn't sure precisely what it is but somehow she seems... wistful? He's not certain that's the word for it. Either way he's left with the distinct impression that there's something she knows which he doesn't. Although he doesn't feel any maliciousness in it, he still wonders just what it could be. Then again, perhaps he's just being paranoid. Lord knows they're all feeling a little of that these days.

The remainder of their journey is filled with idle chatter and a few tall tales from Nasha (which Diani had been quick to put in more realistic terms) and in short order they're pulling up to their headquarters. As they unload their guests' luggage and Merlin begins to greet them, James finds himself watching Adams carefully. She hangs back at the rear of the group, speaking quietly with Franklin and a young woman James hadn't noticed previously.

He still can't shake the feeling that something isn't quite right. But for the time being, they have guests to get settled and a dinner to prepare for, and he finds thoughts of Martin quickly pushing any others out. There will be time for speculation later.

* * *

Merlin finds that Eggsy and James make a rather engaging pair of hosts. In fact they're rather a good team on that front. Although he'd planned to take on those duties himself, they seem to have it more than covered and so he leaves them to it. Not so long ago he might've stubbornly put his foot down on the matter and insisted on doing it himself, but with his continuing recuperation and the amount of work he has already, he's frankly just too exhausted to put up a fuss. As much as he hates to admit it, he needs all the help he can get.

And so he hangs back quietly, watching as the new Galahad and the old Lancelot usher their guests to their quarters; all save for two.

It's not that Merlin hadn't noticed the girl straggling behind the group beside Franklin, it's just that he wondered why no one had mentioned her. She'd remained quiet and distant, seemingly more interested in studying the walls and ceiling than she was in following their conversation. This was until Franklin had pulled him aside for a word while Eggsy and James got the rest of their visitors situated.

"I wanted to discuss how you're progressing with filling in your ranks," the red-headed woman tells him. "Namely in your department."

"Ah. Well, a fair number of them decided to return, but between those who didn't and those we lost in the attack, we're still running something of a skeleton crew," Merlin replies.

"That's what I'd thought," Teagan says with a nod. "Specifically, you've lost your Nimue, haven't you?"

It was yet another loss that still plagued his thoughts. She'd stayed behind that night after prying him away from his station with the promise that she'd wrap up what he'd been working on. Being that it had been some time since he'd last seen his bed, he'd reluctantly agreed. All this meant that when their headquarters was hit, the bright-minded woman who had served as his his second in command had gone with it.

"Yes, that's correct," Merlin answers. He gestures behind them to the young woman trailing after them. "Am I to assume our guest is someone you're proposing for the position?"

"At least temporarily," Teagan tells him with a laugh, gesturing for the young woman to join them. "Maddy? Maddy, come and meet Merlin."

Even after being summoned, this woman—Maddy, as Franklin had called her—seems to dawdle until she decides she'd care to join them. As she approaches, Merlin can better make out her features; a pale, petite girl with short, dark hair neatly parted at the side and bright blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. She seems younger up close, he realizes. Much younger; he wonders if she's even finished school yet.

"Maddy, this is Merlin. The one I spoke about on the way over," Teagan says, her hand resting on the young woman's shoulder in a way that Merlin would call motherly. "Merlin, this is one of my assistants, Madeline Graves."

"Ms. Graves, it's a pleasure," Merlin says, offering his hand. 

The girl merely nods as she silently shakes his hand, her eyes seemingly anywhere but on him. It's curious, but not altogether strange considering the sort Merlin's worked with in the past. Scientists, engineers, programmers... they all tend to be a little eccentric in their own ways, himself included.

"Maddy is one of my most reliable workers," Teagan goes on to say, her face nearly beaming with pride. "And arguably my most creative. I'm confident she could be an asset to Kingsman while you continue to rebuild."

"Forgive me for being suspicious, but given the nature of our work, I'm fairly prone to be," Merlin says honestly. "Exactly why would you be willing to part with someone who is apparently of some value to you?"

Teagan at least has the decency to look remorseful. She holds her hands up, as though coming clean with some secret, though her smile remains intact.

"You caught me," she admits. "I was hoping to get to this later, but... Part of the reason I think Maddy could be of use to you at this stage is that she's incredibly ambitious. A little _too_ ambitious at times."

"...and you think spending time with Kingsman could serve to teach her some moderation," Merlin says, cottoning on fairly quickly. It is, after all, why the majority of their visitors are here.

"Precisely that. While at the same time I believe that ambition would find a better outlet here while you have so much yet ahead of you in rebuilding your organization," Teagan says. "She's remarkably gifted, she just doesn't always know when to stop."

" _She_ is right here and can still hear you," Maddy announces suddenly. The girl had wandered off during the conversation, her eyes trained on the ceiling as though tracing each crack and corner. "I consider my level of ambition perfectly normal."

Merlin watches as Teagan folds her arms over her chest. "The sword...?"

Curiously, that seems to get the young woman to stop her wandering and her gaze returns to the earth as she mutters something at her shoes. Teagan sighs and shakes her head, holding up her clipboard and hurriedly typing on the screen of her tablet before gesturing to Merlin's own. The quartermaster looks down to the screen resting on his lap and frowns at what he sees has been sent to him. The image stills he recognizes—he'd been the one to retrieve them from Martin's ruined spectacles, after all. But laid out beside them is what appears to be blueprints for a weapon. More importantly, they seem to be blueprints for the weapon that had nearly ended Percival's life.

"This is..." Merlin murmurs.

"Mine," Maddy says firmly and with some agitation. "Someone stole it."

"This weapon is yours? Your design?" Merlin asks in disbelief.

"That's what I just said," the girl tells him bluntly. "You shouldn't ask questions you already know the answers to. It makes you look stupid."

"Maddy," Teagan says warningly,, clucking her tongue in disapproval. "Rude."

"Was it?" Maddy asks, her head cocked to the side curiously. "Oh. I'm sorry."

Merlin is used to sarcastic apologies but in this case, he's surprised to find it sounds strangely sincere. Bizarre considering she'd essentially just called him 'stupid' to his face, but not altogether an unfamiliar exchange. He can see the meeting is likely not going as Teagan had hoped it would, given that the Irishwoman bites at her lower lip as though she's about to gnaw it off. Still, he's not prepared to decline her offer simply because this assistant of hers seems a bit rough around the edges. He's dealt with that before. But more importantly...

"A security breach?" Merlin says questioningly.

"We don't know," Franklin admits. "I've checked our system and so far, it seems as though this is the only data that's been compromised. Adams had hoped to speak with Arthur at his earliest convenience, given that it's a matter of some importance."

Merlin hums, looking down at the deadly weapon's blueprints once more. "Yes, I imagine Harry would like to discuss it as soon as he returns. How long have you known about this?"

"A little over twenty-four hours," Teagan tells him. "It's not the sort of thing we wished to keep quiet for long, but given that we're not sure what we're dealing with, anything but face-to-face discussion seemed foolish."

"Right, good," Merlin says. "Well... hardly _good_ but I'm glad we're on the same page."

"We're looking into the matter as we speak," Franklin assures him. Though, she hardly looks comfortable about the matter. Not that he blames her—finding a potential leak in your ship is never a welcome discovery. "And you'll know whatever we know as we uncover it."

Franklin inhales deeply and rubs her hands together, seeming as though she's keeping a great deal of her worries to herself as she pulls her tablet out from under her arm. He watches as her slim fingers move quickly across the screen, only to receive a notification on his own tablet.

"In the meantime, I'm forwarding Maddy's portfolio to you so you can look it over," she says. "We're not trying to force any personnel on you by any means. This is still your organization after all."

"Excellent," Merlin answers. "I'll review it, but I'm sure if she comes with your recommendation, I won't need long to think it over."

 

The reassurance seems to perk her up a bit in Merlin's opinion. He's picked up on an almost motherly concern for the girl emanating from her and he finds he rather likes that. It's something he'd always felt himself, that protective instinct when it came to his charges—it's good to see it's something that appears to translate across the position.

 

"But for now, let's see about getting you settled," Merlin says, gesturing down the hall. "You look about as tired as I feel."

 

Though he keeps the mood light, a great sense of unease has washed over him. He can't help but feel something that's been brewing since the night they'd been attacked has now been set in motion. 

 

And they're not nearly ready for it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another new baby! Lol. We'll be seeing a lot of her in upcoming chapters.
> 
> [Madeline Graves, FC: Emily Rudd](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/9e/ae/d0/9eaed0a1512c11140063fe8e91e33d42.jpg)


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